


Feels Like Home

by Bunnywest



Series: Home 'verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Play, And by bad I mean he's very very good, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Bottom Peter Hale, Canonical Character Death, Casual Sex, Christopher 'Casanova' Argent, Christopher Argent is the preacher's boy gone bad, End game Steter, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Topping, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Injury, M/M, Pining - sort of, Puberty, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stiles and power tools don't mix, Stiles is ten years younger than Peter, Top Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, mentions of Drop Bears, no infidelity, now with extra pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-07-04 03:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 103,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15832539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Peter always claimed that soulmates were the universe manipulating you.Now that he has one of his own, in the shape of six year old Stiles, he's willing to admit that maybe he was wrong. Maybe, your soulmate is exactly what you need.And maybe you're what they need, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, remember how I claimed that I could write fics of under a thousand words for Steter week and not expand on them? Apparently I'm a filthy liar.  
> This is the follow up to the soulmate fic, [Soulmates Are Just The Universe Manipulating You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15575895)
> 
>  **Author's note - Please Read**  
>  Now, I see you squinting at the tags, going "No infidelity"? But then it says "Peter Hale/Chris Argent"? What gives, Bunny? Explain yourself, right now!  
> I will, I promise.  
> Here's the deal - Stiles is much younger than Peter, and in this universe, if there's a significant age gap between soulmates, it's acceptable for the older of the pair to find someone to blow off a little steam with. It stops them turning into a frustrated wreck, and means that when their soulmate is old enough, they can show them a good time.  
> That's where Chris comes in. He's there to teach Peter what he needs to know. But there's no emotional attachment - it's purely physical. Stiles is also aware of the arrangement, and accepts it for what it is. 
> 
> **ALSO** \- Can I just clarify, even though this is tagged as underage, NOTHING will be happening between Peter and Stiles until Stiles is much older - so rest easy on that front, okay? Okay.

 

It’s late, that first night, before any of them get to sleep. The Sheriff and Claudia join the pack for dinner, and the families spend the evening getting to know each other better as they come to terms with the fact that Peter, the biggest cynic of them all, has a soulmate ten years his junior.  John watches approvingly as Peter settles Stiles against his hip, making sure Stiles is comfortable when the youngster begins to doze. “Looks like you got a fan there, son,” he nods.

Peter nods back. “Goes both ways,” he offers. ”He’s a good kid.”

John snorts out a laugh. “He’s really not.  He’s a handful and he’ll talk your ear off and his favorite word is ‘ _why_.’  Last week I had to go to the school because he pushed Jackson Whittemore face first into the dirt in the playground. Said Jackson was picking on one of the _little kids._ ” John puts air quotes around the words. At Peter’s quizzical look, John explains. “Stiles is one of the smallest in his class. The kid he was defending’s built like a tank.  But he’s Stiles’s friend, so that meant Stiles was going in to bat for him. ”

Peter can’t help the smile that sneaks onto his face. “Sounds like he’s determined.”

“Yep. Kid’s like a bulldog. Fearless and loyal and too damn stubborn to ever back down.”

Peter bristles a little at that – is the Sheriff insulting his soulmate? He fights the urge to growl, and instead looks John in the eye and says, “I happen to _like_ bulldogs.”

John’s face breaks into a grin. “You’re a sassy little shit, aren’t you?”

Peter shrugs. “So I’ve been told, sir.”

John just shakes his head. “Jesus. I can tell you and Stiles are going to be each other’s bad influences. God help anyone who crosses the pair of you, and I hope I’m retired before it happens, because I’d hate to arrest you both.”

Peter shakes his head firmly. “That would imply that I’d get caught.”

That startles a laugh out of the sheriff, and Stiles squirms, and opens one eye. “I was sleeping,” he complains to his father.

“Shhh pup, settle,” Peter says, fingers carding through Stiles’s hair without him even thinking about it.  Stiles does, nestling in closer. 

John indicates his son. “We should take him home, get him to bed. It’s late.” He holds out his arms, and Peter stands up, oddly reluctant to let his tiny charge go. He does though, transferring Stiles carefully to his father’s arms.

“Is it all right if I come and see him? Just to get to know him a little more,” he clarifies.

Claudia pats his shoulder as she passes. “Trust me, you’ll see plenty of him. I think he’s planning to move in.”

Peter lays awake for a long time that night, thinking about the day's events. He never wanted a soulmate, but now that he has one, he can’t imagine what he was thinking. His life’s been instantly, irrevocably changed, and he finds that he’s perfectly fine with that.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles doesn’t get to move in, despite asking every day for a month, until finally his father fixes him with a firm look and tells him “Give it up, kiddo - it's not happening.” He does become a constant presence in Peter’s life, though. Peter gets his license, and offers to pick Stiles up and take him to school, since it’s on his way. Actually, it’s more a case of Stiles looking at Peter with big eyes and saying, ”Pleeeeease?” and Peter being helpless to resist.

Peter gets teased by his classmates of course, because he’s always been so dismissive of the whole concept, and yet here he is, unpronounceable name on his wrist and a smile on his face, having to admit that okay, maybe the universe knows something. Peter grumbles and huffs and snarks back, but there’s no bite to it, which leads to even more teasing about the wolf having lost his fangs.

He doesn’t even care, because Stiles is… the kid’s _six,_ for god’s sake, but he’s smarter than he has any right to be, and Peter thought he might find it wearing to spend time with a six year old, but instead, a feeling of contentment washes over him, the same feeling he gets when his pack are all together. It feels like _home_.

They get into a routine. Peter takes Stiles to school and drops him off, walking him to class, because Stiles so enjoys smugly leading Peter by the hand, showing him off. They’ll share a hug, which generally makes the parents go _aaaw,_ and then Peter will go to his own school. A couple of days a week Peter will pick Stiles up and take him home with him, where his mom will feed them both, and they’ll spend the afternoon with Peter doing homework and Stiles watching cartoons and chattering away, a constant comforting background presence. 

On one occasion, Peter turns up at the school to collect Stiles just in time to see a bigger kid pushing Stiles over. His wolf goes crazy, and all Peter can think about is _mine_ and _threat_ and _protect_ _Stiles_.

The principal’s a little more lenient once he realizes that Peter and Stiles are soulmates, but Peter still has to write a letter of apology, listen to an endless lecture from the kid’s parents, and promise that he’ll never pick a child up by their armpits and roar at them again. It’s all worth it for the look of pure triumph that flashed across Stiles’s face when the boy had wet himself, whimpering and sobbing as Peter snarled at him, fangs and claws out.

The  day after Peter threatens his classmate, Stiles comes home with no less than three invitations for playdates. Apparently the kid who Peter put in his place is a nasty little shit, and somehow  Stiles has achieved minor god-like status by virtue of having a soulmate who's nothing short of terrifying.

There are no more jokes about the wolf losing his fangs.

Sometimes they’ll go out into the preserve, and Peter will give into Stiles’s pleas to give him piggyback rides, running through the woods with Stiles holding on tightly, giggling and breathless as he cries “Faster, Peter, faster!” Other times they’ll sit on the porch chairs and Stiles will drape himself across Peter’s lap and look on, fascinated, as Peter shifts back and forth, back and forth, while Stiles watches, always and forever intrigued by the way he can change his features at will. It never fails to delight Stiles, who runs his hands wonderingly over Peter’s pointed ears and down his sideburns.

(It was almost insulting, how Stiles reacted the first time Peter shifted for him. Stiles pleaded and pleaded to see Peter’s wolf, and Peter expected Stiles to be at least a little intimidated, was ready to comfort him, in fact.  Stiles though, wasn't even slightly afraid. Instead he broke into a wide grin, demanding that Peter open his mouth wider so Stiles could touch his fangs. Peter had called him his _fearless little goblin_ , and Stiles had nodded in agreement, before asking him to howl. Peter had, and Stiles had been impressed with that, at least.)

There are days when Peter will go over to the Stilinski house, and Claudia will put him to work mowing lawns or pulling weeds. It was his mother’s idea, when she saw Peter twitching restlessly. “ Your wolf wants to provide for its mate. Go and make yourself useful at the Sheriff’s house, you’ll feel better,” she’d suggested.  She was right, of course, and so now Peter gladly goes and does whatever jobs Claudia has lined up for him, whether it’s gardening, folding laundry, or washing the cruisers at the police station. It settles something in him, knowing that he’s proving himself as a provider.

Stiles, of course, accompanies him. “I like it best when I’m with you,” he tells Peter earnestly.

“I like it best when I’m with you, too,” Peter always replies, and the wide smile that splits Stiles’s face continues to be the best thing Peter’s seen, no matter how many times he’s on the receiving end of it.

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles is seven and a half, Claudia starts getting headaches. She forgets things. Peter comes in from mowing the lawn and she gets her purse and tries to pay him, thinking he’s some neighborhood kid that John’s hired, and that’s when Peter knows something’s very, very wrong. He drives to the station and tells the sheriff about his concerns, and John sighs heavily. “I know, kid. She had an MRI last week, and we’re waiting for results. If it happens again just humor her, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter agrees. He hesitates before asking,” But she’ll be all right?”

John’s whole face crumples into abject misery, and he doesn’t reply for a long time. Finally, he says, ”Whatever it is, Claudie’s a fighter. If anyone can beat it, she can.”

It’s not really an answer, but at seventeen, Peter knows enough to just nod. He doesn’t say anything to Stiles or his mother, but a few days later John drives out to the pack house and sits Peter and his parents down and tells them that Claudia has Frontotemporal Dementia, and there’s no cure. He breaks down as he tells them that doctors have given her six months if she’s lucky.

Ruth Hale holds John as he cries, making soothing noises. She knows the man well enough to know that he’ll put on a brave face for his wife and son, that this might be his only chance to unload. Finally John pulls himself away, an embarrassed expression on his face as he fishes out a handkerchief, drying his eyes and blowing his nose. “Sorry about that. I’m making a damn fool of myself.”

“There’s nothing foolish about a man who loves his wife,” Ruth tells him firmly. “Now, what can we do to help?”

She saves her own tears for later, as does Peter. After John leaves, the pair of them will cry and rage and roar together for the man losing his wife, for the child losing his mother, for the demise of this happy little family. But for now, there’s a man who needs them.

The bite’s out of the question, wouldn’t heal Claudia of this. It’s the first thing Peter asks. Ruth shakes her head sadly, and John confirms that the doctors have told him the same.  John has to work, there’s no way around that, but he doesn’t want to leave Claudia alone with Stiles. She’s getting worse by the day. “Well obviously, you’ll all move in here,” Ruth says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

John sighs. “I feel like we’d be imposing, Ruth.”

“It’s not imposing if you’re pack, honey,” Ruth tells him kindly. “We have plenty of room, and Claudia’s my dear friend.  If this thing’s going to take her, she’s going to spend her time surrounded by friends and family. That’s how pack works.”

Peter sits quietly, digesting the news. Stiles is going to lose his Mom, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He looks at his own mother and tries to imagine it, but he can’t. Moms are meant to be there. That’s the rule.

Ruth must be able to sense his turmoil, because she comes over to wrap her arm around his shoulders and give him a squeeze. “We’ll handle it together,” she says quietly, and Peter shoots her a grateful look.

They’ll get through this.

 

* * *

 

They try to keep it from Stiles at first, but he’s always been far too observant. He seeks Peter out one day, about a month after they move in. He lays his head against Peter’s chest the way he always does when he's worried, and whispers, ”My mom’s sick, Peter, isn’t she? Really really sick.”  Peter can only nod.  “Is she gonna get better?” Stiles  asks, so quietly that Peter can barely hear him.

“Oh, pup,” is all Peter can say, and that's apparently all Stiles needs to hear to know the answer. He clings tightly to Peter as he sobs his little heart out, and Peter lets him, running a hand down his back and doing his best not to let his own tears fall in sympathy. Eventually, Stiles’s tears dry, and he falls asleep, exhausted. Peter carries him up to his room and tucks him in, and as he leaves the bedroom he runs into John.

John takes one look at Peter’s tear stained t shirt and hisses out furiously, “You told him? Without asking me?”

 “No!" Peter snaps. "I would never! But he's not stupid. He figured it out himself.”

John visibly deflates at that. “Yeah, I should have guessed he would have. Kid’s too damned smart.” His mouth twists queerly as he adds, “He's just like his mother.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Stilinskis are absorbed seamlessly into the pack, made welcome and comfortable - Ruth and Tom Hale make sure of it. Stiles has a room next to Peter’s, and sometimes he even sleeps there. But as his mother’s condition worsens, there are more and more nights where he can’t sleep, and he creeps into Peter’s room and quietly wraps himself around Peter’s back.

There are other nights where Peter will wake with a start, and realize it’s because he can hear Stiles’s heartbeat going a mile a minute, a sure sign he’s having a nightmare. On those nights, Peter’s the one who creeps into Stiles’ room and takes him in his arms, murmuring, ”Shhh, pup, it’s fine,” carding his fingers through Stiles’s birds-nest hair, rumbling low and comforting in his chest until his soulmate drifts back into sleep without ever having really wakened.

Claudia knows full well why they’ve moved in with the Hales, and when she’s having her good days, she tells them how grateful she is to them for taking care of her and her boys. Towards the end though, when the good days are a distant memory, she screams that she’s been kidnapped, and claims the wolves are trying to poison her.

When she gets like that, Peter will take Stiles out of the house and distract him with trips to town for curly fries and a movie, or a run through the preserve. Stiles always goes willingly when Peter grabs his jacket and says, ”Coming for a ride, pup?” because he doesn’t want a repeat of the time his mother accused him of trying to kill her. He’d had nightmares for a solid week after that.

It’s almost a mercy when, a little over a year after she was first diagnosed, Claudia leaves them. She’s had a good day, the first one in a long while, and even through her body’s weakened by the disease, she insists on getting out of bed. John carries her downstairs and settles her on the couch, and she murmurs soft words against his neck as he does so. It’s the first time in weeks she’s even recognized him. She places a gentle kiss on his lips, and his eyes glisten with unshed tears at whatever it is she whispers to him.

Claudia spends the day with the pack surrounding her and Stiles in her lap, his gangly nearly-nine-year-old limbs folded up awkwardly under him. She tells Peter to keep taking care of her boy, that she’ll come back and haunt him if he doesn’t, and Peter’s not sure whether to laugh or cry at that.

Everyone seems to know that it’s time, Claudia included.

“You’ll look after them?” she asks Ruth, who nods, unable to speak. And as evening draws in, with no fanfare, she lets go, hugging every one of them in turn, before drifting into sleep. Her breaths grow steadily shallower, until finally, they stop.

Peter’s heart breaks for his young mate as Stiles sobs out against his father’s shoulder, “I want my mom.”

Peter steps forward and takes Stiles in his arms, rocking him until he’s cried himself out, murmuring useless words of comfort in his ear, wishing he could do something, _anything_ , to make this all go away.

But there’s nothing he _can_ do. Claudia’s gone, and now it’s up to the pack to take care of John and Stiles.

 

* * *

 

Peter should have left for college, but he’s deferred for a year. Stiles needs him more.

For a long time after Claudia’s death, Stiles and John are both mere shadows of themselves, swallowed by the enormity of their loss. Stiles is a constant presence at Peter’s side, small hand creeping into his as they sit together, gaining comfort from his soulmate’s presence, and Peter can’t even think of leaving him when his grief is so raw, and his need so great.

Stiles will always be more important to Peter than any college degree. He’s worked his way right into Peter’s very heart and soul, with his inquisitive nature and fierce loyalty and his totally unashamed demands for affection. Truth be told, Peter isn’t that upset at not having to leave for another year.

Peter suspects that if the Stilinski men had been left on their own, it would have been all too easy for John to fall into a bottle and never climb out, and for Stiles be left to raise himself. But when Tom sees what’s happening, when John’s one drink after work becomes two and three and four, he steps in.  Tom makes sure there’s never a full bottle around, and if John pours himself a drink, Tom pours himself one too, and sits with him, sipping quietly. Once the glasses are empty, he collects them both and puts them in the sink, silently challenging John to say something. 

John will nod quietly, and then Tom will coax him out to his workshop to check on the progress of whatever he’s building at the time. They’ll stay out there for a couple of hours, and when they come back in, John’s eyes are often red rimmed, but he walks less like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Tom spends a lot of time nursing John through his grief, and Peter loves his dad a little more for it.

Slowly, slowly, Stiles recovers from his loss. When he turns nine, three months after his mother’s passing, he doesn’t want a party, and can barely manage a smile at the cake Ruth makes for him. But by the time his tenth birthday rolls around, he’s lost the scent of sadness and loss that was clinging to him, and he’s started to laugh again.

When Ruth asks if he wants to do something for his birthday,  he nods eagerly, asking for a sleepover and a bouncy castle. The Hale- Stilinski household is overrun with ten-year olds for an entire weekend as Stiles celebrates reaching double figures, and nobody minds in the least. They’re all just happy to see Stiles getting back to his old self.

Peter’s invited to show off his claws and fangs, and Stiles’s friends are much more impressed than Stiles ever was. Talia’s older kids, Laura and Derek, are corralled into helping watch over the youngsters, and Peter smiles to himself when he sees a couple of the girls giggling every time Derek walks past. His nephew’s going to be attractive, Peter can already tell. The boy just needs to learn to string two words together.

 

* * *

 

 

John Stilinski’s only ever foolish enough to suggest that he and Stiles should move out once. Claudia’s been gone a year, and he somehow gets the idea that they’re outstaying their welcome.  

He brings it up over dinner. “I’m thinking of moving back to town with Stiles. It’s time we left you in peace.”  The table falls silent, and everyone stares at John as if he’s lost his mind.  “What? We appreciate the help, honestly, but we can’t just stay here. We’re intruding on your family.”

Ruth stops eating and points her fork at him. “John Stilinski, you _are_ family. If you think I’m going to let you leave here and try and manage on your own, you’re sadly mistaken. Claudia made me promise to look after you two, and that’s a promise I intend to keep. You’re part of the family now, and that’s that.” 

John opens his mouth to speak, but Tom catches his eye and shakes his head. “Don’t even try and argue with her, John. If Ruth says you’re family, you’re family.” His eyes flash red, and John’s not a Were, but he knows damn well that the Alpha Has Spoken.

Stiles, who’d looked frankly appalled at his father’s suggestion, asks, ”So we’re not leaving?”

John throws his hands in the air in a helpless gesture. “Apparently not, son. Looks like we’ve been adopted, like a couple of stray cats.”

But he’s smiling as he says it.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His father gives him a knowing look one day, and takes him aside. “Peter, you need to find someone you can blow off some steam with. You need to get laid, son.”  
> Peter feels his face heating under his father’s gaze. “It’s fine.”   
> “It’s not fine. You stink of frustration. The whole pack can smell it. Even Derek commented.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, Chris was meant to be a SIDE character in this - four lines, tops.  
> The boy just wouldn't behave.
> 
> I call this version Christopher 'Disappointment to his Daddy' Argent.

 

 

Stiles doesn’t even pretend to sleep in his own room anymore. “I sleep better with you. Deal with it,” he tells Peter on the odd occasion when Peter half-heartedly suggests it, and that’s the end of the conversation.  It means that Peter gets to spend his nights surrounded in Stiles’s comforting scent, and that his bedroom smells of pack and mate, so he really doesn’t mind. But it also means that Peter has to slide out of bed quietly and take care of his morning wood in the shower.  Stiles either doesn’t realise or doesn’t care, and Peter’s careful to keep it that way.

Peter’s not attracted to Stiles, not like that, not at this age, but he’s nineteen, and a stiff breeze gets him aroused, let alone the feeling of a warm body next to his. He finds himself looking gazing at the attractive young guy at the lumber yard when he’s there with his Dad, and then having to go home and jerk off furiously before Stiles gets home from school.

Tom gives him a knowing look one day, and takes him aside. “Peter, you need to find someone you can blow off some steam with. You need to get laid, son.”

Peter feels his face heating under his father’s gaze. “It’s fine.”

 “It’s not fine. You stink of frustration. The whole pack can smell it. Even Derek commented.”

The thought of his fourteen year old nephew talking about his near constant arousal makes Peter squirm uncomfortably. This isn’t something he wants to discuss with _anyone,_ let alone his dad, but Tom ignores his embarrassment and barrels right on. ”You know it’s okay for you to have partners, right? Stiles won’t mind. He knows how it is.”

Everyone knows how it is. When there’s an age gap as big as theirs, it’s accepted that the older partner might have a certain type of _friend_ , as long as they’re discreet. It means they won’t be endlessly frustrated, or tempted to persuade their soulmate to do something they’re not ready for. It’s a system that works, and nobody would think twice about Peter hooking up.

Peter can’t deny he’s been thinking about it more and more, but still he hesitates. “But what if Stiles does care? I don’t want to upset him.”

His father raises an eyebrow at him “Peter, are you telling me you’re willing to stay celibate for another six or seven years, and then have both of you be inexperienced, on the off chance that Stiles might mind you sleeping with someone?”

Peter studies the dirt at his feet intently. “No,” he mumbles, blushing furiously.

His father lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll explain it to Stiles. And you can go see if that Argent boy you’ve been making eyes at is interested in an arrangement.” Peter’s head snaps up at that, and his father laughs. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are, son. Seen you eyeing him off for a couple of weeks now.”

Peter’s completely scarlet by now, all composure gone. “Dad!!” he hisses.

Tom can’t help but snicker at the horrified expression on Peter’s face. “Calm down, son. I can tell you now that Argent’s a sure thing. That boy never met a dick he didn’t like, and I hear he has a weakness for Weres, especially since he knows how it pisses his daddy off. He’s perfect for you, and you know he won’t expect any more than you’re willing to offer.”

It’s true. Chris is perfect for Peter – he doesn’t get emotionally involved, he has a reputation for knowing what he’s doing in bed, and he’s hotter than sin.

Peter thinks about it, thinks about the way Chris moves that lithe body, the stories he’s heard about how Chris isn’t just easy, but he’s _good_ , about the way he’d tipped Peter a wink just last week in town, and makes his decision. “You’ll talk to Stiles first?”

“I’ll talk to Stiles, make sure he understands. He’s a smart kid, it’ll be fine.”

As they walk back to the house, Tom adds “Just be sure you use protection, all right? That Argent kid’s had more meat in him than a  butcher’s shop.”

“Can we not talk about this anymore?’ Peter squeaks, hurrying away from his father before he can say anything else on the subject. Tom watches him go and laughs loudly at Peter’s retreating back. He does enjoy catching his normally confident son off guard, just occasionally.

 

* * *

 

 Peter knows when Tom’s talked to Stiles, because Stiles determinedly ignores him for all of half a day. Peter just waits it out - he knows how Stiles works. The ten year old will stew on what’s bothering him until he can’t hold it in any longer, and then he’ll come and find him, and everything will come out.

Sure enough, Stiles finds him in the study, grabs him by the hand, and drags him upstairs to their room. He hides his face against Peter’s chest, the way he does when he’s unsure of himself. Finally Peter hears a muffled, ”My dad gave me the sex talk.”

“Yeah?” Peter rubs his hand comfortingly down Stiles’s back.

“Yeah. It was weird. Like, he’s my _dad_ , he should never talk about that stuff.” Peter snorts at that. Stiles continues, ”And then, _your_ dad gave me the _other_ sex talk.”

“Other sex talk?” Peter feigns ignorance, but he must admit he’s impressed with the men in this family right now and their coordinated approach.

“The one where you have urges because you’re older, and I’m too young for you, and you need to find someone in the meantime but it’s ‘ _just physical’_ and I’m not supposed to get jealous,” Stiles recites, sounding distinctly jealous.

“Ah.”  Peter continues to stroke Stiles’s back, knowing the physical contact will encourage him to keep talking.

“He says I might see you hanging around with someone, and it might be Chris Argent, but not to worry about it.” Stiles pauses for a moment before pulling away from Peter, face wreathed in concern. He finally spits out what’s really worrying him. ”You wouldn’t leave me for him, would you? He’s older, but I’m the one who has your name.” He holds his wrist out, as if Peter would ever need a reminder.

Peter traces his fingers over the script gently. “You know I won’t leave you for him. This is just…”

“It’s physical,” Stiles finishes for him with a sigh.

Peter nods. “It’s nothing against you pup, I promise. I’ll always come back to you. And when you’re older, it’ll be just you and me. But for now, I need something.”

Stiles looks at his wrist, where Peter’s fingers are softly moving over the word there. His shoulders are hunched in, and Peter can tell he’s still not happy. “Can you, can you not tell me about it when you do it? Can you go and see him when I’m not around?”

Peter hugs Stiles tightly. Stiles has gotten taller this last year, and he’s no longer the smallest in his class, not by a long shot. Peter can tell he’s going to be long and lean. “I won’t tell you about it,” he agrees, and Stiles relaxes in his arms.

“I guess it’s okay, then.” Stiles’s heartbeat speeds up the way it does when he’s embarrassed, and he almost whispers, “So, you’re gonna do butt stuff?”

Peter laughs quietly. “Yeah, I guess.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment, before whispering “ _Butt stuff_ ,” and snickering quietly. Peter closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of holding Stiles close, and waits to see what Stiles will say next, because he can tell his boy’s not quite done yet.

“This is really so that when I’m older, you’ll know what to do?” Stiles finally asks.

Peter hums affirmatively. “Mainly. It’s as much for you as for me, pup.”

Stiles lets out a long breath. “I guess that makes sense. You should do it.”

“Thank you, baby.” Peter kisses Stiles on the forehead, and Stiles makes a happy noise. Peter can’t help but feel better about the whole thing now he knows that Stiles is okay with it. He determines to go and see Chris at the lumber yard tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Peter waits till Stiles is at school. As he’s on his way out the door, Tom beckons him over. “Going down the lumber yard?” he enquires casually. Peter nods, swallowing thickly. Tom pulls his credit card out of his wallet. “Get a hotel. A _decent_ hotel,” he clarifies. “I want this to be good for you, son, and the last thing you need is a creaky bed and thin walls, or a rushed grope in the back of a car.“ Peter can feel the heat rising in his face, and he wonders if there will ever be a day when his father stops wanting to talk about sex. But he thanks him, and tucks the card away safely. The last thing he expects is for his dad to ruffle his hair and say, “I mean it, Peter. I hope it’s good.”

“I hope so too,” he says quietly. And then he walks out the door to see if he can convince Chris Argent to be his booty call. From what he’s heard, it won’t take much.

Chris Argent is the only son of Pastor Gerard, the old school hellfire and brimstone preacher who has a reputation as a madman and a congregation of twelve. As soon as he turned eighteen, Chris, who up until then had been the very picture of of a preacher’s son, all downcast eyes and _“yes sirs’_ learned at the end of a belt, moved out of home. He ditched his white button downs for tank tops and tight jeans the first chance he got, and instead of studying the scriptures, started working at the local lumber yard.

It didn’t take long before his lean muscled body caught the eye of one of the women in town. She took him home, and soon had him singing a whole different hallelujah chorus to the one he was used to. Chris discovered sex, and he _liked it_. He soon found, to his delight, that there was a whole string of women who wanted a hot nineteen-year-old body in their bed, and he let them lead him there happily, learning from them as he went, earning a reputation for having a silver tongue in more ways than one.

One night he turned up at his lover’s house to find her there with another man. He only hesitated a moment before he let the pair of them draw him inside, and he was surprised to find that his dick stood up and took notice when he was pressed against the wall and kissed by someone smelling of aftershave and scotch instead of perfume and sweet wine. The man whispered in his ear about what he’d like to do to that sweet ass, and Chris nodded eagerly. When he went home the next morning, it was with a definite limp, stubble burn between his thighs, and a whole new world to explore.

Five years later, Chris is completely open about his willingness to fuck anyone who takes his fancy. Chris genuinely doesn’t care that people call him a manslut. In fact, he takes an unholy glee in his reputation, knowing it drives his father wild. “What can I say?” he drawls with a wicked glint in his eye. “Maybe my daddy just didn’t raise me right.”

 

* * *

 

 

Chris is using the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face when Peter arrives at the lumber yard, and Peter’s treated to the sight of tanned, rippling abs and a dark blonde happy trail leading down into worn jeans before Chris drops the fabric and sees him there. He gives Peter one of those wide, golden smiles of his, and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Peter says in return, mentally kicking himself. _Smooth, Hale, real smooth,_ he thinks.

Chris doesn’t seem to mind, though. He saunters over to where Peter’s standing, and says, “Somethin’ I can help you with?” He stands with his hands on his hips, waiting for a reply. When Peter can’t quite find the words, Chris smirks. “Let me guess. You’re not here for lumber.”

Peter had a whole speech prepared, but it’s flown out of his head, and all he can come out with is,”Not lumber, no.”

Chris takes a step closer and leans right into Peter’s personal space. His breath is hot on Peter’s face as he growls out,”You’re Peter Hale. Werewolf. Your soulmate’s the sheriff’s kid, and you want someone to have a little fun with till he’s done growing, maybe learn a little somethin. That about cover it?”

Peter sees the amusement sparkling in the other man’s eyes, but he also sees the hunger there. Suddenly bold, he says, “ And you’re Chris Argent, the preacher’s boy gone bad. Word is, if I want someone to show me everything I need to know between the sheets - and make it _good_ \- you’re the one to teach me. Will you?”

Chris laughs softly, but it’s not mean. “Oh, I’m gonna show you _so_ many things. Gimme a sec.” he walks off, heading towards the office and leaving Peter standing awkwardly, but it’s not long before he’s back. “Boss owed me half a day,” he says simply. “I’m all yours.”

 

* * *

 

Chris is so casual about the whole thing that Peter finds himself relaxing even before they’ve reached their hotel. When he mentions that he’d like to check into the Beacon because he wants a decent bed, Chris just grins and nods, saying, “Good choice,” and Peter lets out a breath.

They go to the front desk, Chris throwing the receptionist a lazy grin as she flutters her lashes at him. Peter notices that she gives him a key to one of the suites, even though they’ve booked and paid for a regular room. Chris takes the key, and reaches a hand out, running a finger gently down the side of her face. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and she blushes and giggles. Peter watches, mesmerized. Chris is an honest to god snake charmer, he decides.

Chris leads Peter upstairs, navigating the corridors to their suite with ease. When they get there, as soon as they’re in the door he crowds Peter up against the wall and kisses him, hot and hungry. Peter kisses back, feeling all the blood in his body run south at being manhandled. Chris kisses him until he’s breathless, and then pulls away with a satisfied hum. He runs a hand over the bulge in Peters jeans and says, ”You ever done this before, kid?”

Peter can’t quite speak yet, so he just shakes his head. Chris kisses Peter again, but it’s sweeter, less urgent. Peter closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of sawdust and sweat, enjoying the way Chris’s hands are working their way under the hem of his shirt and skating across his lower back. Far too soon, Chris pulls away. “I gotta shower. Wanna join me?“ he asks with a smirk.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get me out of my clothes.”

“Is it working? Cause I gotta say, I’m keen to see if your cock’s as pretty as your face.” Chris peels his tank top off carelessly and throws it to the side, almost like a dare.

Peter doesn’t hesitate to strip his shirt over his head and shuck out of his jeans, leaving him in his boxer briefs. Peter knows he looks good -  he’s got the natural muscle definition that all Weres possess, and he’s put on a decent amount of bulk over the summer. Chris looks him up and down and whistles appreciatively. “Y’know, my daddy once told me that werewolves are the devil’s work. Says he sent them to tempt us into sin.” He looks Peter up and down once more before continuing,” I say, if he’s right, then give the devil his due, because _damn,_ that’s fine.”

That startles a laugh out of Peter, and Chris laughs with him, low and seductive. “Come on sweetheart, let’s go shower.” Chris drops his jeans and steps out of them, and somehow Peter’s not surprised to see that he’s not wearing underwear. Chris turns and walks to the bathroom, and Peter follows him, eyes fixed on the pert ass in front of him.  He can’t wait to fuck it.

They get in the shower, and spend a little time running their hands over each other, soaping up their skin and then rinsing it off. The contact’s enough to have Peter fully hard in no time, and when Chris wraps a firm hand around his cock Peter can’t help the moan that escapes him. Chris pumps him once, twice, and then lets go, and this time Peter whines.

“Settle, baby. Just making sure you’re nice and clean for me,” Chris smirks, before sliding his hands around and rubbing handsful of suds over Peter’s ass, while pulling him a little closer. Peter takes the time to run his hands over Chris’s chest, toying with the hair there, and then, feeling bold, drapes his arms around Chris and leans in for a kiss. Chris meets him halfway, and their wet, naked bodies press together, the water running down in rivulets as they kiss.

Chris reaches out suddenly and turns the tap off. “Wanna move this to the bedroom?” he asks, voice all promise and sex.

“God, yes,” Peter breathes out.

They dry themselves roughly, and the next thing Peter knows Chris is pressing him backwards into the mattress. “You gonna let me show you a good time?” Chris murmurs, but he’s obviously not expecting an answer because his mouth is on Peter’s the next second. They lay there making out for a long time, Peter getting used to the hard planes of a man’s body against his and the press of Chris’s cock against his thigh. He gets his hands on that ass and drags Chris closer so they can rub up against each other, and he can’t help the hungry sounds that escape his mouth.

Eventually though, Chris pulls away. He smiles that damned smile when he sees Peter’s pout, and says, “Easy, baby, we’re in no rush. We’re gonna start out slow today. I’m gonna teach you to blow me, and then I’m gonna make you come with my hands and my mouth, till you beg for mercy.”

It sounds amazing, but Peter’s confused. “We’re not having sex?”   

Chris shakes his head in amusement. “Oh, we’re having sex. But there’s more to sex than getting your dick wet, sweetheart. _So_ much more. And slow’s the way to go, trust me on this.”  Peter opens his mouth to protest, but Chris cocks a brow at him. ”Think about it, baby. I’m guessin’ when your boy’s ready, you want it to be good for him?”

Peter nods. “Of course.”

“So tell me, the first time you take him to bed, you plan on fucking him straight away, or you gonna ease him into it, woo him a little, help him enjoy the ride?”

Peter pulls up short at that. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Chris looks at him knowingly. “Uh huh. I thought so.” He props himself on one elbow, settling in. “I know you’re here because you think you’re gonna blow a gasket if you don’t get some relief. And don’t worry, we’re gonna have a _good_ , good time today. But we take our time. Nobody’s putting their dick in anyone’s ass, at least not yet.”

Peter nods slowly. “I guess.” He can’t deny that Chris makes sense, but he’s a little disappointed. “I was looking forwards to fucking you, though.”

Chris laughs softly. “Oh, no baby. When we get there, and we _will_ get there, you’ll be taking what I give you. And then, when you know what feels good, I’ll let you practise on me all you want, till you can make me come on your cock.”

Peter just stares open-mouthed as he tries to get his head around the fact that he’ll be the one getting fucked. His dick throbs at the mere thought of it, and he starts stroking himself, letting out a whimper.  Chris smirks at the sight. “You like that idea, huh?” Peter nods, and Chris pulls him in for a long, slow kiss. Peter chases his mouth, unable to help himself. Chris murmurs “Maybe your boy’ll wanna top sometimes. Or maybe he’ll be happy with you ploughing him like a cornfield every night. But either way, you gotta know how to make it good for him.” He leans in close, and breathes in Peter’s ear, “And that means I’m gonna make damned sure that first, it’s good for _you_.”

A wave of arousal rolls over Peter, thick and desperate, and all he can do is whisper “Jesus,” and jerk off frantically, while Chris just huffs out a laugh and starts nuzzling at his throat. The feeling of a wet mouth against his neck, combined with his own hand tugging on his cock, combine to catch him unawares, and he comes so hard he thinks he sees stars. He lies there panting, hand dripping and brain fuzzy. Chris just keeps kissing and nibbling his way down Peter’s neck, trying and failing to leave a mark there.  After a minute he murmurs “You with me, sweet thing?”

Peter blinks once or twice, and groans.  ”Shit. That’s just embarrassing. Over before we even started.”

Chris sounds amused as he says, “Oh sweetheart, you think that’s it? Blow your load and it’s over? We’re not done here, not by a country mile. All that did was take the edge off a little.” As if to prove his point, he reaches down and wraps a large, callused hand around Peter’s length. “Why do you think I love taking little wolves to bed, baby? Because you _just don’t stop._ I’ll bet I could have you hard again in less than a minute.”

Even as he speaks, Peter’s cock swells under his touch. “See? Now like I said earlier, once you get yourself together a little, I’m gonna put you on your knees and teach you to get me off with your mouth. And then I’m gonna take that cock of yours, and I’m gonna suck every thought you ever had out through your dick.”

 Peter whimpers, and Chris laughs.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s harder than Peter thought, giving a blowjob, but he can tell it’s something he could come to love. He closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in the big hands that are tangled in his hair, and the deep, sultry voice that’s telling him what to do.

“That’s it baby, nice and easy, you can take a little more,” Chris intones, and rocks his hips forwards another inch. “Tilt your head a little, breathe through your nose, just like that.”  Peter obeys without question, and feels his throat fill a little more. He breathes through it, tries to remember to cover his teeth and stay relaxed. “Such a good mouth, look at you taking what I give you,” Chris croons, and Peter can’t help the warm glow that he gets at hearing the praise. He sucks little more firmly, takes Chris a little deeper, and is rewarded with a muttered “Fuck, yeah.” Chris’s grip tightens as he says “Gonna pick up the pace baby, yeah?” Peter makes an affirmative noise, and Chris grunts as he starts to move a little faster. Peter gags at first, but Chris pulls back and reminds him, “Breathe, sweetheart.”

Peter takes a deep breath, and nods before opening his mouth again. Chris pushes in, and resumes the faster pace, and this time, Peter’s able to keep up. _Through the nose, relax your throat_ he recites silently to himself, and he soon gets the hang of it. Once he’s figured out the mechanics, he’s able to enjoy the taste and feel of Chris’ cock in his mouth, and he finds himself almost in a trance as Chris fucks into him steadily, in and out, in and out, thick and salty and heavy on his tongue. The thrusts start to lose their rhythm, and suddenly Chris pulls out, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking twice before coming all over his hand with a grunt.

He looks down at Peter and grins, breathing heavily. “Didn’t figure you were ready to swallow, not quite yet.” He extends a thumb and drags it over Peter’s swollen bottom lip. “Look at that fucked out little mouth. So good for me,” he murmurs. Peter leans forwards and sucks the thumb in without conscious thought. Chris chuckles, and says, “You’re a natural born cocksucker, aren’t you?”

Peter releases the thumb with a lewd pop, before replying,” Learned from the best.”

“Still learning, baby. You’ve got a ways to go. But don’t worry, I’ll get you there,” Chris smirks.

Peter grins back. “I’ll look forwards to it.”

Chris helps Peter up off his knees, and half walks, half drags him over to the bed. He wipes his hand on his discarded tank top, before guiding Peter to lie on his back. Chris crawls up the bed, looking for all the world like he’s the predator, before taking Peter’s half hard cock in hand. “I guess I don’t need to ask if you liked that. Now let’s get this baby ready, shall we?”

He starts to stroke, setting an easy pace, and Peter’s cock stiffens almost immediately. Chris takes his hand off and lowers his mouth, taking in just the head at first, getting Peter’s cock wet. He moans at the sensation, and Chris hums, making Peter’s hips twitch.

“Just close your eyes, sweetheart, and enjoy this,” Chris says, before swallowing Peter down all at once. Peter’s entire being is suddenly focused on the _hotwetsuck_ surrounding his cock. He lets his eyes flutter closed, and loses himself in the pulsing arousal that thrums through him in time with his heartbeat. His breathing grows ragged as Chris slides his mouth up and down the length of his dick, before suckling on just the head. Peter’s hands reach down of their own volition and hold Chris in place as his hips start to snap up. He’s not going to last, he knows that already, and he doesn’t care.

Chris takes him as deep as he can, bobbing up and down and using his tongue in ways that Peter’s never even dreamed of. His arousal builds and builds, nerve endings singing with pleasure, and when Chris takes his balls in one hand and rolls them gently, it’s the end of him. His whole body tenses suddenly, and he doesn’t have time to do more than hiss in warning before he’s coming down Chris’s throat. Chris swallows it all, and keeps mouthing gently at Peter’s cock until Peter pushes him away, oversensitive.

Chris lifts his head, looking distinctly pleased with himself. “Damn, baby. You taste just as good as you look,” he drawls.

Peter can’t find the words to reply.

 

* * *

 

 

Chris spends the rest of the afternoon worshipping Peter’s dick. “Baby, this poor neglected thing’s been waitin' for someone like me to take care of it,” Chris purrs out, before sucking and licking Peter to hardness and making him come again and again, with only his hands and that sinful mouth, not stopping until  Peter shakes his head in a wordless plea for mercy. By the end of it Peter can barely raise an eyebrow, let alone anything else. He lays on the bed, wrung out and breathless, and makes a sound like a dying whale. Chris sits back smugly, and Peter tilts his chin vaguely in the direction of Chris’s erection. ‘Wanna hand?” he slurs.

Chris gives him a big, easy smile, and says, “No rush, sweet thing. Catch your breath, and then I’ll let you get your hands on it, show you what I like.” And once Peter’s in a fit state to move, Chris does exactly that, coaxing Peter until he’s stroking him just right, enjoying a long, slow hand job before coming over Peter’s knuckles in hot spurts. “You’re good at this, baby. I think we’re gonna have a lot of fun together. You wanna do this again?” he asks, eyebrow raised in query.

“Definitely.” Peter feels relaxed and loose, like all the tension has drained out of his body. He can’t wipe the smile off his face.

“Well, alright then. You know where to find me, just let me know when you’re free.” Chris kisses him once more, and then drags his clothes on and heads for the door. Peter watches him go, and he thinks that maybe he should feel something for someone he’s been so intimate with, but it’s just not there. Instead his thoughts turn to Stiles, and he thinks about what Chris has said, about making it good for him when the time comes. Peter’s determines to let Chris Argent teach him everything he knows, so he’ll be able to rock Stiles’s world.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is waiting for him when he finally gets home. Peter was careful to shower before he left the hotel, but there’s no disguising the way he moves, loose-limbed and easy, and there’s no hiding the satisfied smile on his face.  Stiles looks at him for a long moment before grabbing him by the hand and leading him upstairs. He pushes Peter back against the bed and curls his ever- growing body against him, nuzzling in. They lay there together and Stiles keeps lifting his head to look at Peter’s dopey smile.

Finally, he says, “I thought I’d be more jealous, but I’m not. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It really doesn’t, pup.”

“And it’s made you pretty happy.  I like it when you’re this happy. I _want_ you to be happy,” Stiles continues.

“You make me happy, Stiles. This is more like…scratching an itch.”

Stiles observes him seriously. “I really make you happy?”

“Never happier than when you’re here,” Peter confirms, fingers carding through Stiles’s hair from long- ingrained habit.

Stiles nods, satisfied. “After a moment, he asks, “So, did you do butt stuff?”

Peter snorts. “No, we didn’t, brat. And what happened to _I don’t want to know?_ ”

“I don’t,“ Stiles replies quickly. “I was just curious.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “How very unlike you.” Stiles doesn’t reply, just snuggles in closer, and Peter ends up dozing off like that, with Stiles curled up against him, content.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter prepares to leave for college. Chris Argent shows him a thing or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get this a few days early because we're driving down to the big smoke to celebrate my daughter's graduation from Uni, and otherwise you'd be waiting till Tuesday, which seems unfair to all.

 

College is looming. Peter’s enrolled at Berkeley, studying a mishmash of ancient languages, supernatural lore, the influence of modern culture on werewolf customs and pack traditions, Inter-pack Protocols, and the myths and truths of Norse mythology. They all add up to a degree in something called Supernatural Studies, (also known as a Twilight Zone degree.) At first glance, his degree’s totally useless, but in reality, it’s going to equip him for his role in the pack as Talia’s Left Hand when the day comes. He’s lucky, because the pack owns an apartment so he won’t have to share a room, but it’s still a five hour drive home. He doesn’t know how often he’ll be able to make the trip, between study and classes.

His departure’s quickly approaching, and he’s nervous - not that he’d ever admit such a thing.  Stiles knows, though. Peter never could hide much from him. They’re watching a movie on a Saturday night, and Peter’s mind has wandered to what it will be like, living away from home. Stiles nudges him softly. “Hey. Stop worrying, you’ll be fine.”

Peter bristles a little. ”Who says I’m worrying?”

“We just watched a fight scene and you didn’t pick a single hole in their techniques or tell me how you could have taken that guy down faster,” Stiles points out. ”And I know it’s only a month till you leave. I mean, I’m not stupid. Two and two, y’know?”

Peter sighs heavily. “You’re far too smart for your own good, pup. A man can’t have any secrets round you.”

A smile creeps onto Stiles’s face at the praise that Peter’s disguised as snark. “Well, you shouldn’t worry. You’re smarter than all of them. You’ll be fine.”

Peter pulls Stiles closer, so he’s tucked under his arm. “I know all of that. I’m worried about you, mainly. Sure you won’t pine away without me?” he says lightly. He’s half joking, but Stiles gives it serious consideration.

“Maybe a little,” he says finally. “But I mean, I’ve got my dad, and the pack, and we can call. And you’ll come home to visit lots, right?” Peter hesitates. Stiles turns where he’s sitting and repeats “ _Right?_ ”

“I’ll try, pup. But I don’t know what my study load’s going to be like, honestly.” He sees Stiles frown and hastens to add, “When I can, I will. And I’ll call as often as I can. How does that sound?”

Stiles’s expression lifts at that. “Does that mean I’ll get my own phone?”

Peter laughs. Stiles has been been angling for a cellphone for months – trust that to be the first thing he thinks of.  “I’ll ask your dad if you can have one,” Peter promises. Stiles snuggles in close happily, and Peter can smell the satisfaction rolling off him at getting his own way.

Stiles is quiet as they watch the rest of the film, but eventually he nudges Peter again. “It’s okay, if you can’t visit as often as I want you to. I mean, I’m not a kid. I don’t need you holding my hand. I probably won’t even miss you that much.”

Peter pretends not to hear the lie in his heartbeat.

* * *

 

 

One thing Peter _will_ miss is his time with Chris Argent. The two of them have had a lot of fun, and true to his word, Chris has taken his time debauching Peter thoroughly.

One step at a time, he’s edged them forwards, teaching Peter to lie with his head hanging off the side of the bed while Chris slides deep in his throat, purring out, ”You got this, baby. Letting me in nice and deep. Look at you, taking it all,” while all the while his hips thrust lazily, steady and deep, and Peter never even gags.

Well, not the second time he tries it.

Chris spends one afternoon doing nothing but rimming Peter till he’s a panting, squirming mess, and when the muscle is loose and wet, he slides three lubed fingers in there, adding one at a time.  Then Chris massages his prostate until Peter comes so hard he can’t speak for minutes afterwards, just lying there  helplessly.

More than that, Chris has helped Peter get comfortable with being naked around someone else, with talking and joking about sex, and with asking for what he wants. Peter’s no longer the shy boy that couldn’t speak in the lumber yard. He’s confident, almost cocky, in the bedroom, and Chris encourages it. “I’ll do  anything you want, baby, as long as you’ll ask for it,” he tells him one lazy Saturday afternoon .

“So you’ll finally fuck me?” Peter asks at once. Slow build’s all well and good, but they’ve been playing this game for _months_ , and Peter’s tired of waiting.

Chris laughs. “Yes, sweetheart, I’ll fuck you.” His sunshine smile widens at the way Peter perks up. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that.  I heard it’s your birthday next week, thought we’d make a night of it. When are you free?”

Peter’s face breaks into a grin. “I’ll find out.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter’s birthday falls on a Wednesday. They go out to dinner and there’s a cake and gifts - a new laptop from his parents, and a myriad of useful items to help him get settled in at college from the rest of the pack.

Stiles waits till last to hand over his gift. He’s been disappearing into the workshop with John in the evenings and coming back smelling of paint and wood shavings, so Peter’s not surprised when he hands over a large, heavy parcel with a shy, “I made it for you.”  When Peter opens it, he finds three photo frames on a backboard of reclaimed, whitewashed timber.

There are three photos in the frames. One’s a photo of the whole pack, all grinning and waving. One’s of Tom and Ruth, both poking their tongue out. The last one is a picture of Peter and Stiles that Ruth had taken last month at a carnival. They’re sharing a stick of cotton candy, both leaning in for a bite, mouths half open, obviously laughing at something. Peter remembers that day – they’d had a ball, and by the end of it Stiles had barely been able to keep his eyes open. Looking at the picture, their fondness for each other is evident, and it makes Peter’s heart warm to see it.

Stiles watches expectantly as Peter turns the frame over in his hands, examining it. He leans into Peter’s side and says quietly, ”It’s so you don’t miss us too much, when you’re gone.”

“This is a beautiful job, pup, and the pictures are perfect. Did you have any help?” Peter asks.

Stiles’s chest puffs up a little as he proudly proclaims “Nope. Did it myself.” 

John nods in agreement. “He did it all. We just supervised, because y’know. Stiles. Sharp things.”

Tom nods, grinning. “Not gonna lie, kid came damned close to losing his fingers a couple of times.”

“That was _one_ time!” Stiles protests furiously. “I got distracted is all!”

Peter laughs quietly, and goes back to looking at the frame. “I love it. Thank you.” He presses a kiss to the top of Stiles’s head, and Stiles preens under the attention.

 

* * *

 

 

John quietly informs Peter on Thursday that he’s arranged for Stiles to go for a sleepover on Saturday night, so if he wanted to stay out as well, nobody would blink an eye. Peter hadn’t quite figured out how he was going to spend the night away without rubbing Stiles’s face in it, but this is perfect. He thanks John, and sends a quiet prayer of thanks to whoever it was that gave him John Stilinski as a future father in law. He tries not to think about _how_ exactly John knew what he was planning, and chalks it up to John’s observant nature. He drops by the lumber yard and tells Chris that he’s free Saturday night. “ _All_ night,” he adds, in case there was any doubt. Chris’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“That so, baby? Well in that case, meet you at mine at six on Saturday night?”  Chris has a nice apartment downtown, with a big, comfy bed that Peter’s becoming very familiar with.

“It’s a date.”

Chris wraps a hand round Peter’s wrist, his thumb running over the script there. “Naw, baby. You and me both know it’s not a date. Not when you already got someone waiting for you. What it is, is two people having a mighty fine time. And I’m happy with that.”

Peter snorts and shakes his head. “Figure of speech, Chris. Same as you call me sweetheart, when we both know there’s nothing sweet about me.”

Chris throws back his head and laughs at that. “You’re not wrong, baby. You know why I call you sweetheart?” Peter cocks his head to the side to indicate he’s listening, because he’s curious about Chris’s use of pet names. Chris gets right up close and murmurs in his ear, “ You’re not the only body warmin’ my bed, baby. And if I call y’all sweetheart, I don’t have to remember anybody’s name.”

It’s Peter’s turn to laugh. ”You are _such_ a slut,” he says fondly, and Chris doesn’t deny it, just grins.

“Best there is, baby.”

 

* * *

 

When Peter arrives at Chris’s and knocks, a voice comes floating out. “Come on in, baby. Door’s open.” Peter walks inside, and goes through to the bedroom. What he sees there makes his day.

Chris is propped up against the headboard, long legs splayed in front of him, naked but for two things – a party hat set at a rakish angle on his head, and a large red ribbon tied around his cock. “Hey, sweetheart,” he greets Peter. “Got a present over here. You gonna come unwrap it?” he strokes one hand lazily up and down his shaft, and Peter shakes his head, laughing softly.

“Idiot.”

Chris just leers at him, and pats the bed. Peter makes his way over, pulling at his clothes as he goes, and he’s naked by the time he gets there. Chris pulls him in for a kiss, and says, ”Sweetheart, you’re in for the ride of your life tonight.”

Peter can’t stop the shiver of anticipation that runs through him. ”Promise?”

Chris takes Peter’s hand and places it around his hard, beribboned cock. “See this, darlin’? Trust me when I say, it’s the gift that keeps on givin.”

* * *

 

 

It’s an hour before Chris even considers getting his dick in Peter’s ass. First they kiss and grope at each other until Peter’s hard as nails, then Chris blows him long and slow, pulling back each time it looks like Peter’s going to come. By the time Chris lets him, Peter’s close to shifting from sheer frustration. Chris hears the low growl Peter lets out, and after glancing up and seeing the flash of Peter’s eyes, he sets to work in earnest. Peter’s back arches off the bed when he comes, and he lets loose a stream of “ _fuckfuckfuck!_ ”  Once Peter’s caught his breath, Chris pins him down and sucks his dick till he’s hard again, then rims him till his hole is soft and pink, the muscle lax. Then he takes his own sweet time working his fingers in one at a time, teasing Peter’s prostate, applying more lube and more lube and more lube until Peter’s literally dripping and begging for Chris to _just fuck him already_. When he can slide three fingers in and out easily, Chris leans close and rumbles, “Hands and knees or facing me, sweet thing? Your choice.”

Maybe it’s Peter’s ego, but he doesn’t like the thought of Chris seeing him pull what are sure to be some pretty unflattering faces. “Hands and knees,” he decides, and settles himself against the bed with his legs spread wide. Chris hums appreciatively, and settles between Peter’s spread legs. Peter hears the sound of a condom wrapper being opened, and the slick noise of Chris’s hand moving as he lubes himself up.

“Relax for me baby, we’re gonna take this nice and easy,” Chris croons, in that tone usually reserved for calming a skittish horse. Peter admits, even if only to himself, that he might, indeed, be feeling the tiniest bit skittish.  He startles as a strong hand settles on his hips, holding him steady. Chris slides the head of his cock over Peter’s hole, back and forth, back and forth, making soothing noises.

“Just do it,” Peter pants out, because he doesn’t want to lose his nerve, and the anticipation’s killing him – it’s like being at the top of a rollercoaster, waiting for the drop.

He feels Chris settle the head of his cock against his hole, and then press forwards. “Breathe out for me sweetheart, relax a little. Want this to be good.” Chris presses forwards a little more firmly, and Peter feels the head start to enter him, stretching him and making its presence felt.  It doesn’t hurt, but it does feel weird. His breath hitches when the head pops in suddenly. Chris keeps going, sliding in and in and in, and Peter’s _full,_ so full, he’s full and stretched and he wants it gone but he also wants more, he wants Chris to move and he wants him to stop, all at once.

He doesn’t know what to do with everything he’s feeling, and Chris must be able to sense it, because he stops and waits, one hand settled on Peter’s lower back, grounding him and comforting him. “Deep breaths baby, in and out, nice and slow, that’s right,” Chris purrs, and Peter closes his eyes and takes a few deep, shaky breaths. The burn’s starting to ease, and his muscles relax, and finally he gives a nod.

“I’m good. Keep going,” he breathes out. Chris pulls back slowly, and then eases himself back in, slow as molasses, easy and gentle as Peter adjusts. All his talk about how Peter needs to do this so he’ll know how it feels suddenly makes sense. Peter keeps his eyes closed and lets himself get used to the rhythmic push and pull, the hard, unyielding flesh inside him, the way his insides are being stretched and molded around the length of Chris’s cock.

Chris puts his hands under Peter’s hips and hitches him up a little higher, and on the next thrust Peter lets out a deep groan, because at this angle, Chris is rubbing right over his prostate. “That, do that again,” Peter demands, as his body shivers and his nerve endings sizzle with pleasure. Chris chuckles, and thrusts in again.

“You want more of that, baby?” Peter nods rapidly. He’d comment on what a stupid question that is but he’s too busy chasing more of that glorious sensation. Now that the burn’s gone and Peter’s used to the fullness, he starts to really enjoy himself, rocking back against Chris and moaning.

Chris starts to fuck him properly, setting a steady rhythm and driving in deeper with every thrust, until Peter can hear the slap of skin on skin where their bodies meet. “Look at you sweetheart, taking me all the way inside,” Chris praises him. “You should see yourself, stretched out all around my cock, so damn pretty.”  He continues to piston in and out, and Peter can feel heat and pleasure building inside him. It’s different from anything he’s ever felt before, far more intense than Chris’s fingers ever were, and he briefly wonders if he’ll be able to come from just this.

Chris is breathing heavily as he starts to really slam home, letting out a grunt with each thrust. Peter finds himself moaning, his whole body moving easily as Chris pulls him back onto his cock, sliding in and out, in and out, bringing Peter closer and closer to coming, his body winding tighter and tighter till he thinks he’ll go mad with it, he’s so close. He finds himself whining “ _Pleasepleaseplease_ ,” without even realizing it until the words are out of his mouth.

“Yeah baby, touch yourself, come for me,” Chris rumbles, and Peter reaches under himself. His cock’s hard and dripping, and Peter wraps a hand around it, stroking himself desperately. The sensation of Chris inside him as well as a hand on his cock has him on a knife edge, and it doesn’t take long before his balls are drawing up tight and heavy, throbbing and ready for release. He’s whimpering like a pup, and he doesn’t care.

Chris leans down and starts to kiss down the back of his neck, and it’s the brush of hot breath and the feel of soft lips against his skin that make Peter’s whole body tense and shudder. His orgasm overwhelms him, sudden and shocking in its intensity. He comes in warm spurts, coating his hand and the sheets as he tugs at his cock, unable to do anything but ride it out until he’s panting happily.

Chris lets out a deep groan and then fucks in once, twice, before he stills, coming into Peter’s still clenching ass.  He collapses against Peter’s back while he catches his breath, and then slowly pulls out. Peter feels empty and open, and makes a plaintive sound. Chris rolls off to one side, then guides Peter down next to him.

“Jesus, baby,” Chris pants out. “You came like a damn freight train.” Peter doesn’t reply, too busy trying to remember how to move, since all his bones appear to have turned to jelly.  Chris drapes himself loosely round Peter’s back, and it’s a long time before either of them speak.

Finally though, Peter says, “I think we need to do that at least a couple more times tonight. For research.”

Chris laughs, and his voice is muffled where he’s got his face pressed against Peter’s neck. “Sure, baby. Research.”

 

* * *

 

 

In the weeks before Peter leaves, he manages to fit in four more visits to Chris. True to his word, Chris lets Peter fuck him, talking him through it the first and second time, giving him encouragement and pointers.  The third time, Chris spreads his legs wide and tells Peter, “Show me what you’ve learned, baby. Make me come on that cock of yours.” Peter doesn’t quite manage it that first time, but he does the time after that. And the time after that. And the one after that.

“You’re leaving in a week, yeah?” Chris asks, from where he’s still sprawled in the bed.

“Yeah. Next Thursday,” Peter confirms as he dresses.

Chris hums. “You never know. Maybe I’ll find myself up that way, give you a call.”

Peter grins. “Yeah. You could do that.”

 

* * *

 

 

He leaves.

Ruth sniffles a little, but nobody calls her on it – they wouldn’t dare.  “You make sure you call me, let me know you’re settled, OK?” she commands, and Peter promises he will, just as soon as he arrives.

Tom shoves a wad of cash at him. “College is expensive. I know you’ve got your expenses covered, but you might need a little extra. You call me if you need more.” Peter hugs his dad, giving him an extra squeeze when his father adds, “I’ll miss you, son.”

Stiles hugs him hard, but he doesn’t cry. He blinks furiously, and whispers, “You’ll call me, right? And you’ll visit?”

“Of course I will. Don’t get in trouble without me. And don’t cut anything off in the workshop while I’m gone,” he adds.

Stiles rolls his eyes at that. “That was one time, I swear. And my dad says he’s gonna help me make a coffee table. I’ll be an expert with tools by the time you get back.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, pup. You’re very clever.” Peter catches John’s eye over Stiles’s shoulder and mouths a silent _thank you_. He knows it will be easier for Stiles if he has something to occupy his time, and Stiles does love messing about in the workshop. 

He can’t put off leaving any longer, not if he wants to arrive at a reasonable time. So with one last hug from his parents, one last check that he’s packed everything, and one last squeeze from his boy, he hits the road.  

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tries to adjust to his soulmate being away. It's harder than he thought, but Peter finds a way to help.

 

Stiles watches Peter drive away, and deliberately doesn’t let himself think about how long three years is. He coped with losing his mother, he can cope with this. After all, Peter’s coming back. He’ll probably be back in a matter of weeks to visit. It’ll be fine.

He goes up to Peter’s room, his room for now, and looks at the photo frame he’s hung there. Spurred on by the success of his first attempt, Stiles has made a matching frame for himself, and filled it with pictures of Peter.  There’s one he took of Peter while he was asleep, and he looks so peaceful that Stiles can’t help but run his fingers over the picture, as if that will wake his soulmate up. Stiles misses him already.

But he’s not a little kid anymore. He’s almost ten and a half, which means he’ll just have to deal. He lets out a tiny sigh, just as there’s a knock on his door. He turns to see Ruth there. “Hey, Mama Ruth.”

Ruth comes into the room and sits on the bed. She holds her arms out to Stiles, saying,” I know it’s silly, but I need a hug.” Stiles wraps his arms around her neck and lets her pull him close. They both pretend that it’s for her, and when Stiles lets a few stray tears fall, neither of them comments on it.

It’s a long time before Mama Ruth lets Stiles go, and when she does, she takes him by the hand and leads him downstairs. ”No hiding in your room pining and pouting, Stiles, or it’s going to be a long three years,” she admonishes him. ‘Come downstairs with me – I made apple pie, you can help me eat it.”

Stiles does love apple pie, so he decides to join her. Plus, he knows she’ll give him extra ice cream if he asks just right. Peter might be gone for now, but Stiles still has his family, and his pack. He’ll be fine.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles revises his earlier opinion that night, when he crawls under the blankets and tries to sleep. He inhales the smell of Peter – he might not be a Were, but he’s picked up some of their habits, and he can chase down traces of Peter’s deodorant and sweat on the sheets if he tries. It’s absolutely nothing like having Peter wrapped around him, but he’ll take what he can. It’s no good, though. He lays there quietly for all of ten minutes before he hops out of bed and pads down to the living room. His father looks at him and sighs, opening his arms. Stiles climbs up into his lap, all long limbs and elbows, and rests his head against John’s chest. “I can’t sleep,” he complains.

“I know, son.”

“I’m used to Peter being near. I can’t _feel_ him.”

Stiles is referring to the soulmate bond, that deep contentment that comes from having your partner close. He can still remember back to the first day he met Peter, the first time he felt the sensation of _Oh! There you are_. That feeling’s muted by distance now, and he misses it.

“It’ll get better, son. I promise.” John ruffles Stiles’s hair, before asking “Wanna call him?”

Despite having talked to Peter earlier when he called to say he was there safely, Stiles nods. “ Just…just so I can say goodnight? I can’t sleep otherwise.” He almost sounds embarrassed, and John’s not having any of that.

He turns Stiles to face him, and says,” You listen to me, son. If you need to call Peter every damn night before you go to bed, you call him. He probably misses you as much as you miss him. “

“Really?” Stiles looks hopeful. “I can call him again?”

“Sure thing, kiddo.”

Stiles scrambles off to get his new phone, and dials Peter’s number. It barely rings twice before he hears Peter’s voice, smooth and rich. “Hello, Stiles,” Peter says, and he sounds inordinately pleased to hear from him.

“Hey, Peter,” Stiles says, glancing at his dad.  He nods at the stairs, and John waves him off. Stiles heads back to his room clutching the phone, listening to Peter talk as he does, feeling better by the second.

“I’m glad you called me. I was a little lonely,” Peter admits. A smile creeps onto Stiles’s face.

“Yeah? I thought you might be, that’s why I called you,” Stiles says breezily.

Peter laughs. “Liar. Let me guess – you can’t sleep.”

“Uh huh. I mean, I know I’m always in bed before you, but it’s _knowing_ you aren’t coming later. I couldn’t get comfy. _And_ I couldn’t find my batman pajamas.”

There a small pause. ”Um. I might know where those are.”

“Yeah? Because I looked for them and they aren’t anywhere.” Stiles had hunted for a solid hour.

“That’s because they’re here. I’m sorry pup, I should have asked. I took them out of the laundry and bought them with me, so the bed would smell like you. It was a spur of the moment thing, but still.” Peter sounds a little sheepish.

“It’s fine. You can keep them.”  Something occurs to Stiles then. “Did you take anything else, just so I don’t have to hunt for it?” There’s a long silence.  “Peter?”

“Your red hoodie. That thing reeks of you, baby. I thought it would make the apartment smell like home.”

“Aaaw. You miss me,” Stiles teases, grinning. He’s quietly thrilled that Peter wants his scent near - he knows what a big deal that is for a wolf.

Peter sighs. “Of course I do. Did you ever doubt I would?”

Stiles climbs into bed , phone propped against his shoulder. “I miss you too. Can you talk to me till I’m sleepy?”

“Of course,” Peter says easily. He proceeds to tell Stiles about the drive there, about his apartment, about the fact he’s tucked Stiles’ pajamas inside a pillowcase and slid them into his bed so it will smell _right,_ as he puts it. It’s not long before Stiles’s eyelids are drooping, and he snuggles down further into the blankets. He falls asleep while Peter’s still talking. Ruth comes in and tucks him, sliding the phone away.

“He’s asleep,” she reports to Peter, who’s still on the line.

“I thought he might be. Thanks, Mom. I miss you guys,” Peter says quietly.

“It’ll be fine, Peter,” Ruth says, able to hear the uncertainty in her son’s voice. “We’ll look after Stiles, you concentrate on college. Give it a week, and you’ll both feel better.”

Peter sighs. “I hope so.”

 

* * *

 

It becomes a ritual. If Stiles can’t sleep, he calls Peter at bedtime, and they talk until he dozes. It helps, but it doesn’t make the bed less cold and empty.  Stiles ends up scratchy and out of sorts, and they cut him some slack, knowing he’s still adjusting. It might sound petty, but it doesn’t help that Peter sounds happy, albeit busy, whenever Stiles talks to him. Stiles asks when he’ll be coming home, but Peter tells him he honestly doesn’t know when he’ll have time. He’s been gone three weeks, and it seems like forever.

So Stiles is really not in the mood for it when the kid that Peter had threatened years earlier corners Stiles and shoves him up against a locker, taunting him about how he’s not so tough now his _guard dog’s_ gone. Stiles snaps, and punches him in the face. John gets called to the school, and the principal starts on about how it’s not acceptable behavior, until Stiles can’t contain himself. “He deserved it! He pushed me, and he called Peter a dog!’ he bursts out.

The principal raises her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Devon called Peter a _dog_ ,” Stiles repeats, arms folded.

John looks between his unrepentant son and the other child, and his expression becomes icy. “That so, Devon?” he asks, his voice dangerously quiet. “Did you call my son’s soulmate a _dog,_ son?”

The boy’s bottom lip starts to quiver. “ ‘s sir,” he whispers. John leans in closer. “A little louder, son. Did you call Peter Hale a dog?”

“Yes?”  Devon hesitates, but John just waits. “My daddy says Weres are just dogs who wear pants. He says they’re not real people,” the boy finally recites.

Ah _._

John turns his attention to the principal. “Seems like this is something you could have mentioned earlier.”

“I didn’t know,” she protests.

John folds his arms across his chest. “Why not? Did you even ask Stiles what happened?”

She hesitates. “We didn’t feel we needed to. There’s no excuse for punching another student.”

John fixes her with a hard stare. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to come up here, and it seems like every time it’s because some other kid was bullying Stiles, and he was defending himself. Wanna explain to me what kind of damn school lets that go on?”

“Well, we can’t be everywhere – “

“Sounds like a crock of shit to me, if you’ll pardon my French. You start doing a better job of looking after my kid, and maybe he won’t have to do it himself.” Stiles feels warmth bloom in his chest at the way his dad’s defending him. He pokes his tongue out at Devon while the adults aren’t looking.

Then John scooches his chair a little closer to Devon’s, and leans down so he’s on his level, wearing his most serious Sheriff’s Face. It doesn’t hurt that he’s in uniform, either. “Calling people dogs, kid? That kind of talk’s not okay. Your daddy’s wrong to say it, and you’re wrong to repeat it. Now I’ll let it go today, because Stiles overreacted, and I’ll be having a _long_ talk with him when we get home,” - Stiles cringes at that – “But I don’t ever want to hear you say it again, all right?”

“Nossir,” Devon squeaks.

“Good. So are we all square here?” The principal nods, speechless, and John grabs Stiles by the scruff of the neck and steers him out the door. “I’m taking Stiles home with me. He’ll be back tomorrow,” he calls out as they leave. They walk swiftly out of the building and climb into the cruiser that’s parked out the front. Stiles knows he’s in trouble, and starts to apologize, but John holds up one hand, and Stiles falls silent. He waits for his dad to start scolding him, but instead John says, “Gave him a blood nose, huh? Good job."

Stiles looks up at that. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m not exactly thrilled that it’s on your record. And really, I _should_ be mad. But it sounds like that kid had it coming. Little bastard, talking about our pack like that.”

Stiles sees a mischievous look sneak onto his father’s face. “If anyone at school asks, I yelled at you lots and you're very sorry, okay?”

 Stiles nods dumbly.

“Good.. Now, wanna go get ice cream?”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter is less amused when Stiles tells him about it later that night. “Really, pup? I thought you were staying out of trouble?”  Stiles winces at the disappointment in Peter’s voice.

“But he started it,” Stiles protests. “He said – “ he hesitates, as it occurs to him that Peter probably doesn’t really want to know someone called him a dog. “Well, never mind what he said, but it was _bad_ ,” he concludes darkly.

Peter sighs. “It’s fine, Stiles. I talked to your dad, he told me what he said. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. The point is, what’s gotten into you,? Since when do you go around punching people?”

Stiles is quiet for a long time. He finally asks, ”Are you coming home soon?” He hates that he sounds like a whiny little kid.

Peter groans. “I wish I could. I have three assignments I’m working on right now though. It would be a rush trip if I did. I’m sorry, Stiles.”

“It’s fine. Study comes first,” Stiles says, hiding his disappointment. He’s determined not to make Peter feel bad for doing what he needs to do.

But he’s obviously a terrible liar, because Peter huffs and says, “It’s not fine. You sound miserable, pup.”

“Only a little,” Stiles hedges.

“Define _a little_.” Peter presses.

Stiles holds out as long as he can before blurting out,” I just miss you, okay? The bed’s too big, and I’m _lonely,_ Peter.” Now he _really_ sounds like a whiny little kid, he thinks. No wonder Peter doesn’t want to come and see him.

Peter goes quiet, and Stiles waits for him to tell Stiles he’s being a stupid kid. But instead Peter says, “Can you put your father on the line, pup?”

Stiles goes to find John. “It’s Peter,” he says as he hands the phone over. John thanks him and takes the phone, listening for a minute. He looks at Stiles consideringly, then says, ”Hold on Peter, certain little ears are flapping.” John takes the phone into his bedroom and closes the door firmly, and no matter how hard he tries, Stiles can’t hear what’s being said.

He has his ear pressed against the door when his dad opens it suddenly, and he has to flail to keep his balance. John rolls his eyes. “People who eavesdrop seldom hear good about themselves, Stiles,” he remarks drily. He has the phone to his ear, and he’s saying, “Sounds good, but let me check with Tom and Ruth first.”

 “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was information gathering,” Stiles protests. ”And check what? What are you checking?” he demands to his father’s retreating back. John doesn’t reply, but he’s back soon enough, and he hands the phone to Stiles with a smile. “What are you planning?’ Stiles asks Peter immediately.

Peter sounds amused. “You really need to know everything, don’t you? Fine. I was asking your father if he’d let you have a day off school if I could get there on Friday.”

Stiles lets out a squeak of excitement. “Really?”

“Really. One of those assignments isn’t due for a month, and one’s nearly done.  I can swing it. Your dad said you can have _half_ a day by the way, since I won’t get there till noon.”

Something in Stiles settles at the knowledge he’ll see Peter in just four days. He can’t help but do a happy dance as his dad watches, smiling at his reaction. “I can’t wait!”

“Neither can I baby. See you Friday.” Peter ends the call and Stiles just stares at the phone, grinning. He skips all the way to his room, and sleeps better than he has in weeks.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles gets told off five times for daydreaming on Friday morning, but he honestly can’t help himself. Every time he hears a car passing, he wonders if it’s Peter getting back early. Whenever someone walks past the classroom he looks up, hoping it’s somebody here to fetch him out of class because Peter’s here. It never is, and both he and his teachers heave a sigh of relief when lunchtime arrives, and the sheriff turns up to collect him.

He has his seatbelt undone and is halfway out the car before John’s even put the park brake on. He races inside, and barely gets a foot inside the door before Peter’s wrapped around him, scenting him and holding him tight. It’s like all the tension leaves his body at once, and he melts against Peter’s chest. “Missed you, “ Peter whispers against his hair.

“Same,” Stiles agrees, voice muffled. They stand there together, each basking in the others presence. Being near Peter makes Stiles feel like purring, he's so content.  Tom grabs Peter’s overnight bag and takes it upstairs, but Peter doesn’t notice. John brings in Stiles’s backpack, but Stiles doesn’t notice either. The two men look at each other and shake their heads. “I swear, a bomb could go off,” Tom murmurs. John nods and hums his agreement. Eventually, the two of them pull apart. Stiles looks Peter up and down, looking for any sign of change. He notes that Peter looks tired, and suddenly feels bad. “I’m sorry. I made you drive five hours because I’m lonely.”

Peter tilts Stiles’s’ chin up so he’s looking Peter in the eyes. “Tell me, pup. Have you ever known me do something that I didn’t want to do?” Peter asks.

Stiles takes a moment to answer, and he’s smiling when he does. “You mean, apart from when your Mama Ruth makes you clean your room?” The state of Peter’s floor is a never-ending battle between him and Ruth.

“Brat. Tell me why I missed you again?” Peter scolds with a smile, and pulls Stiles close.

 

* * *

 

 

After lunch, Stiles sees Peter and his dad huddled in the kitchen, heads together as they whisper rapidly. “What’s going on?” he demands. After exchanging a significant look with Peter, John asks casually, “Feel like a drive, son?”

Stiles is instantly alert. “Why? Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Peter tells him.

Of course, Stiles immediately starts trying to figure it out, asking all sorts of questions and begging to be told. Peter and John refuse to give in though, and Stiles is in an agony of impatience by the time they finally get in the car. He can’t think what it could possibly be, but he suspects it has something to do with Peter’s phone call to his dad earlier in the week, and the kitchen conference. “ _Pleeeease_ , Peter.  Why can’t you tell me where we’re going?” he whines, giving Peter his Bambi eyes.

Peter laughs, but remains firm.  “Absolutely not. If I tell you now, it’ll spoil the surprise.”

Stiles folds his arms against his chest and sulks for the remaining twenty minutes of the drive, but it does him no good - Peter openly laughs at him and teases him about it. Finally, Stiles’s curiosity overcomes his pique, and he looks out the car window. He’s just in time – they’re driving through the gates of a property with a sign proclaiming **_Beacon Hills Animal Rescue._**

His mouth falls open as the wheels start turning.  He thinks, he _hopes_ , that he might know what the surprise is. He turns to Peter, eyes wide. “Am I…am I getting a dog, Peter?” It’s something he’s always wanted, but when he was small his parents wanted to wait till he was a little older, and then with his Mom dying, it was something that just fell by the wayside. He’d told Peter about it just once, and he never thought he’d remember.

Peter grins. “Yes, Stiles. You’re getting a dog.”

All the breath leaves Stiles’s body in a rush. He wants to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. “Really?”

“Really, baby. I know you’ve always wanted one, and your Dad agreed that you need something to keep you company.” Peter looks extremely pleased with himself.

“Nothing too fragile, Stiles,” His father cautions. “It has to be able to fit in with the pack.”  Stiles nods rapidly, barely listening. His father parks the car and Stiles is out the door in seconds, bouncing from foot to foot as he waits for Peter and his Dad, eager to get inside before they change their minds. He can’t believe that Peter arranged this.

As soon as Peter’s out of the car he grabs his hand and drags him towards the building, but Peter puts a hand on his arm and stills him, crouching down in front of him. “Just remember, pup, these are rescue dogs. They might be shy, so you need to go slow and gentle. And if there’s nothing you like, we can come back another day. Don’t just pick the first dog you see because you’re excited. That’s not fair to the dog.”

“I won’t,” Stiles promises, even though he’d been planning on doing just that.

Peter straightens up, ruffling Stiles’s hair affectionately, and says, ”Let’s go, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles was expecting to walk into a room full of dogs and told to pick one, but instead a man there sits them down and asks them what feels like a million questions. Big dog or small, male or female, energetic or quiet, inside or outside, puppy or adult, any other animals in the house?

The fact the dog will be living with a pack of werewolves apparently narrows the field – some dogs just can’t cope with Weres. Stiles immediately starts to panic – what if there’s nothing that will suit them? – and it must show on his face. The man, (Simon, his name badge proclaims), catches his expression, and says, ”Hey, don’t worry. We have plenty of dogs that will suit you. You said it doesn’t have to be a pup?”

Stiles nods, and Simon stands. “Wait here, I’ll bring the dogs to you.”

Stiles has to remind himself that he has to be responsible, because the temptation to say yes to the border collie that comes through the door is overwhelming. He’s a gorgeous dog, no question, but when Stiles goes to pet him he ducks his head and shies away. Peter extends a hand and the dog sniffs it cautiously, before letting out a whimper and slinking as far away as he can.

“That’s a no from him,” Simon observes. “In my experience, your dog will choose you, and he’s not interested, sorry.”

The German Shepherd cross that snarls at Stiles is a definite no – Peter growls back at him lowly, and the dog backs off, but Stiles shakes his head. The retired greyhound is tempting, but he’s not…right. They reject the next three dogs in succession because they simply don’t fit. Stiles is trying his best to be grown up about this, but he’s starting to lose heart. “What if there isn’t a dog for me?” he whispers to Peter.

“There will be, pup. If not today, then next time.”

Simon overhears them. “Don’t worry. I have a good feeling about this next guy. I think he’ll be perfect for you.” He heads out the back and when he returns, there’s what appears to be a mass of limbs on the end of a lead, skittering around excitedly.

It’s a boxer pup, with gorgeous brindle markings and a white chest, big soulful eyes, and legs that seem to be made entirely of knees. “He’s around three months. Still a baby, really. Someone found him in a dumpster and brought him to us.”  Simon unclips the lead and the puppy immediately launches itself across the room at them. He clambers up into Stiles’s lap, licking his face happily. Stiles squeals and pulls back, but the puppy keeps licking him, unconcerned. Stiles pets the puppy’s head, and the dog’s tail starts to thwap enthusiastically from side to side as he wriggles and bounces around in Stiles’s arms. Stiles finally shoves him off with a laugh.

The pup heads over to where Peter’s sitting, putting his paws on Peter’s knee and sniffing enthusiastically. Peter flashes his eyes, just once, and growls lowly. The puppy lets out a happy yip, his tail wagging frantically has he headbutts Peter’s hand looking for a pat. Peter grins, and obediently scritches behind the dog’s ears.

Stiles beams at Simon. “I think he’s picked us.”

“Not so fast, son.”  Stiles turns to where his dad’s sitting, hoping his father’s not going to say no. But John just slides down onto the floor next to where Stiles is sitting crosslegged. “Gotta see if he likes me as well, if he’s gonna be part of the family.” He calls out, “Here, pup,” clicking his fingers. The dog turns at the sound, and comes over to John. It eyes his lap, and then climbs onto it, turns around twice, and lays down, head resting on John’s knee.

John runs a hand over the puppy’s head, and the dog yawns widely.  As he continues to pet the puppy, who’s so relaxed he’s in serious danger of falling asleep, John eyes the wet patch that’s appeared on his pants leg. He turns to Stiles. ”Are you sure, son? He’s a drooler.”

“Please, please, can I have this one? He only drools a little!” Stiles isn’t above begging.

“You really like him, huh kid?” Stiles nods vigorously, unable to take his eyes off the now sleeping pup that had been such a ball of energy minutes earlier. John sighs, and hands the puppy over to Stiles. “You walk him every day, and you give him a decent name, none of that new age hippy crap. Damned if I’m gonna be out at night calling for Moonbeam or Waterfall or the like.”

Stiles’s breath catches. “Really? I can have him?”

“Yeah, kiddo. He’s all yours.”

Stiles hugs the puppy close, and feels tears threaten, but he blinks them back, instead just whispering, ”Awesome.”

He continues to cradle the dog as the adults fill in the paperwork, and his face aches from smiling so hard. Peter comes over and puts an arm around his shoulder. “We should call him Moonbeam anyway,” he murmurs into Stiles’s ear, and Stiles snickers as he leans into his touch. This is fast turning into the best day ever. He has a dog, and he has Peter home for the weekend, and all is right in his world.

 

* * *

 

 

After spending some time running various options past his dad and Peter, (“No Stiles, we’re not calling him Deputy. The guys at work would hang me out to dry,”) Stiles names the dog Oscar, which gets a nod of approval from his dad. “Good solid name for a dog.”  

Stiles leans in and whispers to Peter, “We’re calling him Scar for short, like in the Lion King.”

Peter just shakes his head at his young mate. They stop at a pet store and buy a dog bed, food, toys, and a collar and leash for the puppy. When they get the name tag engraved, Stiles whispers to the man doing the engraving, and makes sure that it says _Scar_. John huffs out a laugh. “You always did like that movie, kid. Trust you to name him after a Disney villain.”

A villain is exactly what John feels like when, once they’re home, he suggests putting the dog in the laundry for the night. Ruth looks at him like he’s suggested something monstrous, and says, ”Oh no. I thought the idea was for him to keep Stiles company? Unless you’re sending your son to sleep in the laundry as well?”

Tom chimes in with, “Young pup like that, he needs to bond with Stiles. He’ll be in the boys’ room.” His tone carries an edge of Alpha steel, daring John to argue.  John dips his head to Tom in a show of deference, and carries the dog bed up to Peter’s room with a sigh, muttering about drool on the blankets.

Stiles is thrilled of course – he’d been planning to sneak down and rescue Scar once everyone was asleep, but now he doesn’t have to.  Peter just grins when Stiles climbs out of bed that night and sneaks the pup under their blankets, the three of them cuddled up together. “I’ll have to find a different name for you, pup,” he teases.

Stiles shakes his head. “You can keep calling me pup. It’s ours,” he offers. He doesn’t tell Peter that it makes him feel special, loved, when Peter calls him that. He doesn’t have to.

Saturday morning is spent playing with the puppy, watching the puppy, cuddling the puppy, cleaning up after the puppy, and trying to get the puppy back from Derek, Laura and Cora when they all come over to meet him. Peter’s by his side through it all, and Stiles is completely content. Something occurs to him, though. He realizes that Peter’s probably going to want to see Chris. He’s okay with it, really. He knows how it goes. And if Peter does go out, at least Stiles has someone to keep him company now.

He brings it up on Saturday afternoon.  They’re sprawled on the living room floor together with Oscar when he hesitantly asks Peter, “Are you going out tonight?”

Peter stops playing with the dog and frowns, “Out? Why would I go out?”

Stiles fidgets for a moment. “You know. To see your _friend_.” He emphasizes the word, pouting a little. Okay, so maybe he wants Peter all to himself this visit. “Since you’re home and all, I thought you’d want to catch up.”

Peter sits up. “I drove home to see you, and to pick out this little guy.” He runs a hand down the puppy’s back. “Nothing else. It’s _you_ I’ve missed, Stiles.”

Stiles feels something that was wound tight inside him relax at that. “You’re sure? I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you did go out.”  Peter arches a brow at him, and Stiles belatedly remembers that Peter can tell when he’s lying. “Okay, I might mind a little bit, but only because I want you to myself, not because of, _y’know_.” He makes a vague hand gesture.

Peter leans forward and takes his hand. “Stiles, if you ever tell anyone I said this I’ll deny it, but college is _hard_. And I’m tired. I don’t have the energy for, _y’know._ ” Peter mimics Stiles’s earlier gesture, grinning. He takes Stiles’s hand then and turns it gently so it's wrist up. “Marked for each other, remember?” He turns his own wrist up, and holds it next to Stiles’s, so the names are side by side. Stiles can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across his face. Peter really is here just for him. He bumps shoulders with Peter affectionately, and they consider the subject closed.

 

* * *

 

 

All too soon Sunday afternoon arrives, and Peter has to leave.  Before he goes, he pulls Stiles close and scents him, inhaling the smell of _pack_ and _mate_ until his wolf is content. They’re sprawled across their bed, and Stiles has tilted his head back so Peter can nose at his throat. Stiles loves Peter’s wolfy instincts, is fascinated by them, and he’s spent a lot of time with Tom asking him questions, which is why he knows that Peter will be happy about what he does next.  As they reluctantly untangle themselves, Stiles reaches under the bed and grabs a bag, handing it to Peter. When Peter looks inside, he sees several of Stiles’s t shirts. “I wore them to bed every night last week, so they’d smell like me,” Stiles explains. “I figured the pajamas would have lost their scent.”

Peter pulls him in for a hug. “You continue to amaze me, pup.”

Stiles’s voice is muffled as he says, "Yep. Amazing, that’s me.”

Peter snorts out a laugh, and holds on as long as he can, only letting go when his mother calls out that lunch is ready, and he needs to hurry up if he wants to eat before he leaves. Stiles sighs against him, before saying, “Come on, I’m hungry” and pulling away. It’s a blatant lie, but Stiles knows that if he doesn’t let go now, it will just get harder. Peter doesn’t call him on it, so Stiles figures he must feel the same.

They go downstairs to eat, and after lunch, Stiles watches Peter drive away again, rubbing his hand absently over the name on his wrist as he waves farewell. This time when Peter disappears from view it hurts a little less. Peter’s leaving again, but he’ll be back.

He’ll always come back for Stiles.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter struggles. Stiles notices. John helps.

 

Peter falls into a hole, and it’s Stiles who notices.

He still calls Peter most nights before bed, but the calls have been getting shorter, and Stiles starts constantly feeling an unfamiliar creeping sensation in his gut, like he’s watching a scary movie and waiting for the monster to jump out. He knows something’s wrong, but he doesn’t know what, and he doesn’t know how he knows.

It’s not long till Peter’s supposed to come home for Thanksgiving, and Stiles tries to tell himself that he’s just lonely and impatient, but it’s not that. Peter sounds…off. He has assignments due, and exams coming up and he’s taking part in a group project where the rest of the group _just_ _won’t help_ , he tells Stiles one evening. “That sucks. We had a group project last month and Jackson didn’t do _anything,_ ” Stiles tells him sympathetically.

“Yes, because a baking soda volcano’s _exactly_ the same thing as a college project, Stiles,” Peter snaps, uncharacteristically harsh.

Stiles is silent, stung. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

 Peter sighs. “Sorry, pup. I didn’t mean to snap, I ‘m just so tired, and it’s making me cranky. Forgive me?”

“Of course,” Stiles assures him, but there it is, that note of sourness hitting his gut, the feeling of _wrong._ He tells Peter goodnight and crawls into bed. Scar creeps a little closer and drops his head on Stiles’s chest with a huff, and Stiles pats him fondly. The dog’s been a lifesaver, keeping Stiles company and reminding him of Peter every day, but tonight he doesn’t do anything to help calm the anxious feelings washing over him. 

Stiles lays looking at the ceiling for a very long time, thinking. He’s seriously worried about Peter, but he doesn’t know why. Peter insists he’s fine, just busy, and Stiles has no reason to doubt him. But something is making alarm bells go off in his head, and if there’s one thing he’s learned from being a cop’s kid, it’s to listen to your gut. He resolves to ask tomorrow if they can go and see Peter, just to make sure he’s okay. He knows his dad will probably tell him he’s being silly, and maybe he is, but he just needs to set eyes on Peter, to reassure himself.

The next morning, Stiles gets up early and lets the dog outside, and goes through to the kitchen where John’s finishing his coffee and talking with Tom and Ruth. He stands there for a moment, trying to think of a way to say “Peter’s in trouble,” without sounding like he’s just angling for a visit. He doesn’t want them to think he’s….well, the boy who cried wolf, for want of a better term.

His dad notices the tense set of his body, and puts his cup down. “What is it, kiddo?” he asks, holding an arm out in invitation. Stiles dives under his arm and burrows into John’s side, take a moment to breathe, reassure himself that his Dad probably won’t laugh at him too hard.

“It’s Peter,” he mumbles into John’s ribs. “There’s something wrong.”

John runs a hand soothingly over his hair. ” Did he say something’s wrong?”

Stiles sighs, and lifts his face away from his dad, knowing that this is where he’s going to be greeted with disbelief. “No. I just….something _feels_ wrong. It’s like when you’re watching a movie, and someone’s about to go in the basement, and you want to yell at them not to go, because it’s all gonna turn bad,” he explains, not knowing a better way to put it.

Ruth turns sharply then, and crouches down so she’s on eye level. “Stiles, how long have you felt this way?” Her expression is serious, which Stiles didn’t expect.

“Um, maybe three, four days? A week?”

Ruth stands up straight, and exchanges a look with Tom, who shakes his head.  
“I can’t, baby, not today. John?”

John’s already grabbing his keys, his expression grim. “I’m on it. Go get dressed, Stiles. We’re going to see Peter.”

 

* * *

 

 

They’re in the car and on the road within half an hour. While John quickly packs an overnight bag, Stiles takes the chance to ask Tom what’s happening. “How come you guys are taking this so seriously? I didn’t think you’d believe me,” he admits.

“When someone’s in distress, their soulmate can feel it. It’s like a sense of foreboding, exactly like you’re describing. So you and your dad are gonna go and see what kind of mess my boy’s gotten himself into.”

“ _Foreboding_.” Stiles rolls the word around on his tongue and decides that yes, it fits. He glances at Tom, concern written all over his face. “You don’t think he’s hurt, do you?” he asks, voicing his worst fears.

Tom shakes his head. “Knowing Peter, he’s more likely to have run himself ragged and he’s too proud to admit he’s struggling.”  He ruffles Stiles’s hair, and pulls him in for a hug. “Thank you for telling us. You did the right thing.”  Stiles warms under the praise of his Alpha, and holds on tight while he waits for his dad.

John comes downstairs shortly afterwards and piles Stiles in the car. The drive is punctuated with variations of “Are we there yet?”

Finally, John finally answers with a terse “Yep.”

Stiles protests, saying, “No we’re not.”

John just shrugs. “If you know that, why are you still asking me?”

Stiles huffs and folds his arms, but he stops asking. John takes pity on him and distracts him with stories of his own college days, reassuring him that Peter’s probably just “been a damn fool” as he puts it and burned himself out, like most college students do at one time or another.

They pull up at the address, and when they knock on the door there’s no response. Stiles looks at John, concerned. It’s a Saturday – Peter shouldn’t be at class. “Don’t panic. He might just be out doing groceries,” John reassures him, but he knocks again, much harder this time. They can hear the sound of movement inside, and Stiles breathes a little easier.

His relief is short-lived.  Peter answers the door and stands there looking at them, and Stiles is shocked at his appearance. Peter’s always been a stickler for personal grooming, but he looks like he’s been tied up and dragged through a hedge backwards. He obviously hasn’t shaved in days, and from the smell of him, he hasn’t showered in a while either. There are food stains on his shirt, and he’s wearing sweatpants and no shoes. His hair looks like a bird’s nest, far longer than it should be and unbrushed to boot. There are dark rings under his eyes, and he looks utterly exhausted.

“Peter?” Stiles says timidly to the wild man in front of them.

Peter looks down at him and his face lights up. “Stiles?” he says, like he thinks they’re a dream. He reaches out and grabs onto Stiles like a live saver, pulling him close. “You’re here,” he breathes, and Stiles feels that rush of warmth, of Peter, of _home_ that he always gets when they’re together. Peter just stands in the doorway holding Stiles, eyes closed as he rocks him, obviously feeling the same thing. Stiles suspects Peter would be happy to stay like that all day, but John clears his throat, and Peter’s eyes snap open, as though he’s just realized the sheriff’s there.

“Hey, Peter,” John says, his tone gentle. “The kid here was worried about you, so we thought we’d come check in. You doing all right, son?”

Peter looks a little lost for words. “You drove here because Stiles was worried?”

John nods, and indicates the door, where Peter’s blocking the way. “Mind if we come in?” Peter takes a step back, letting Stiles go and leading them into the apartment. John notes the way Peter’s swaying on his feet, and he places a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Peter blinks owlishly at him. “How long since you slept, Peter?” John asks quietly.

Peter shrugs, making his way inside. “I had a nap yesterday. I’ve got an assignment due, and it’s not good enough. I’m doing a rewrite, but it’s taken me longer than I thought. But I’ll be fine, I just have to get this wording right…” he trails off as he sits down at his laptop, eyes fixed on the screen and fingers flying. Stiles frowns at the way Peter’s just ignoring him, and looks helplessly at his father. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of Peter.

John does, though. He takes the direct approach. He gets a firm grip on the back of Peter’s chair, and slowly but inexorably rolls it backwards, away from the screen. “What are you doing? I’m trying to type!” Peter protests, but John ignores him, pulling the chair back until even Peter’s outstretched fingertips can’t reach and he scrabbles helplessly at thin air.

“You. Go shower, because you reek, and then bed. Stiles, you go with him, make sure he gets some sleep,” he commands them.  Peter’s shoulders slump, and John spins the chair round so Peter’s facing him. “You’re overtired. Go to sleep, kid,” he says gently. “The assignment will still be here when you wake up.”

Peter eyes John doubtfully, so Stiles lays his head on Peter’s shoulder and yawns.” Please, Peter? Come nap with me? I’ve missed you _so_ _much_.”  It’s manipulation at its most blatant, and Stiles can see from Peter’s expression that he knows he’s being played, but he must really be tired, because he doesn’t even try to resist. He runs a hand down Stiles’s cheek and murmurs, “Of course, pup.” He turns to John, saying, “You won’t let me sleep for too long, will you?”

“Of course not,” John assures him. Peter heads off to the bathroom for a shower, and John takes a decent look around the apartment. Stiles can tell, even by his ten-year old standards, that the place is a mess. The sink’s filled with unwashed plates, and the trash bag is overflowing with plastic plates and cups where Peter’s obviously decided it’s easier to buy them than to clean. The fridge is virtually empty apart from some out of date juice, and the cupboards reveal several boxes of pop tarts and not much else.  The floor’s littered with unwashed clothing and piles of paperwork, as well as takeaway containers. “Jesus, kid,” John mutters under his breath. He turns to Stiles and says, ”Remind me to never complain about your room again, son.”

While Peter’s in the bathroom, John calls Tom and Ruth and lets them know that their son’s not sick or dying, just overtired and overwhelmed and in need of some support. “I’ll stay a few days and sort him out,” he tells them. Then he calls his work and tells them he’s taking a few days for a family emergency.

By the time his dad gets off the phone, Peter’s emerged from the shower, and Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the sight of him in just his boxers.  John grabs Stiles’s backpack and digs through it, coming up with a couple of granola bars and a juice box, because god forbid Stiles should travel anywhere without snacks. John throws them at Peter. ”Eat.” Peter devours the bars, and John shakes his head.  “I would have cooked you something, but there’s no damned food.”

Peter hangs his head, and Stiles can see him reddening. “I meant to go shopping, but I kept getting too busy,” he mumbles. He looks so tired, so _defeated_ , and Stiles can’t take it. He goes and leans into Peter’s side, declaring, “Sleep and hugs first. Food later.”  Peter nods his agreement, and leads Stiles to where the bedroom presumably is without a backwards glance.

Once they’re both in bed, John can’t resist the urge to go and tuck the pair of them in. He hugs Stiles and places a kiss on his forehead,  and after only a moment’s hesitation he does the same to Peter. “Not a kid,” Peter objects half-heartedly, but John ignores him and pulls the blankets up to his chin anyway. Peter sighs happily, and he’s asleep before John’s even left the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter sleeps for eight hours. Stiles wanders out once to see what his dad’s doing, but he’s tired from the trip, and soon enough he ends up curled back against Peter’s side, sleeping again. John leaves them to it. He said he wouldn’t let Peter sleep for too long, but _too long_ is a subjective term, in John’s book.

Besides, there’s plenty for him to do.  He casts an eye over the apartment again and runs his hand over his face in quiet despair. Then he rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

He gathers up all the empty takeout containers and soda cans from the floor and takes out the trash. He cleans the bathroom to a high enough standard that he feels he won’t catch some kind of fungal infection just by walking in there. He puts several loads of laundry through, does the dishes, and cleans the kitchen thoroughly. He mops all the floors. Then he mops them again, and makes a note to ask Peter what the _hell_ he spilled. After checking the boys are both still sleeping, he goes to the store and buys enough food to fill the fridge and the cupboards.

Once he’s done, he cooks himself a steak and salad, and grabs a well-earned beer. He’s relaxing on the couch when Peter comes wandering out with Stiles, both of them still half asleep. Peter looks around him, and stops short.

“What did you do?” he asks hazily.

“Housekeeping. You might wanna try it sometime,” John tells him drily.

Peter flushes a little, and John pats the couch next to him. Peter sits down, and John asks him, ”What the hell happened? This isn’t like you.”

Peter sighs. “It was the group project.”

John groans. “It’s _always_ the group project. Let me guess. Someone wasn’t pulling their weight and you tried to make up the slack?”

Peter nods. Turns out _nobody_ was pulling their weight, and Peter wasn’t prepared to fail the assignment. He’d thrown his hands in the air dramatically and told them to _forget it, he’d do the damn thing himself_.  But he underestimated the workload, and with his other subjects needing his attention as well, he soon found himself floundering.

And of course, he’d said he’d do it, and his Hale pride wouldn’t allow him to ask for help. And one person can’t do the work of four, not unless they’re prepared to give up a few other things. Like eating. And sleeping. So Peter’s been sitting here for the past two weeks, trying and failing to finish all his assignments without adequate food or sleep, and as a result he’s a wreck. The unease that Stiles was feeling was based on his soulmate being in distress, and Stiles has never been so grateful to his dad for believing him.

John just shakes his head. “You’re too damn stubborn, Hale.”

Peter doesn’t even argue. “I know. It’s a failing of mine.” Stiles knows that Peter must still be beyond exhausted if he’s willing to admit to having a flaw.

John pulls Peter against his side for a rough hug, and holds him there. Then he cooks the boys’ steaks for them, feeds them, and sends them back to bed. Neither of them stirs till the next morning.

 

* * *

 

 

They spend three days there, and Peter spends a large part of it catching up on his sleep, wrapped tightly around Stiles. Stiles most decidedly doesn’t mind.

Under John’s watchful eye, Peter also sends out emails to everyone on the project apologizing for his outburst, sending them what he’s done so far, and asking if they’d please help him finish it.  By the end of the day they’ve all gotten back to him, and there are some truly scathing comments in the replies, which Peter freely admits he’s earned.

But there are also great big chunks of completed work that he can use, because despite what Peter thought, they _all_ want to pass, and they _have_ been working – they just weren’t dancing to his tune. He then has to email them all back and admit that he may have a _slight_ control issue, and apologize yet again.  What they’ve sent is all good stuff, Peter finds that with the extra input, the project practically writes itself.

“Almost as if you need four people for a four-person project, huh?” John comments idly.  Peter glares at him, but John just smiles innocently, and goes back to the mountain of food prep he’s doing, deftly grabbing a giant knife out of Stiles’s hands and replacing it with the marginally safer paring knife for him to chop the vegetables with.

When they finally leave, having made sure that Peter’s feeling better and that his freezer is stocked with enough meals for a month, John tell Peter that he’s spoken to Ruth, and one of the pack will be coming down regularly to make sure he’s doing okay, “And let me tell you kid, it’s likely be your Mom to start with, so you’d best make sure the place is halfway decent.”

Peter assures him that he will, and Stiles knows that if Ruth’s coming Peter will clean the place top to bottom rather than disappoint his mom. He reaches up and wraps his arms around Peter’s neck, asking quietly, ”Are you really okay?”

Peter squeezes him tight. “I really am. I’ll see you in two weeks for Thanksgiving?”

“Uh huh.”

“And do I have to kick the dog out of my half of the bed?” Peter asks, smiling.

Stiles pretends to consider it. “Nah. I think there’s room for both of you.”

Peter laughs softly. He pulls away enough so he can look Stiles full in the face as he says, “Thank you for having my back, pup. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Stiles feels a wave of affection wash over him, and suddenly brave, he leans up and kisses Peter on the cheek, barely a brush of soft lips on skin.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, either,” he whispers.  As they drive away, he looks back to see Peter standing there grinning, fingertips pressed against his cheek.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, Peter has his life back under control, more or less. He’s able to report to his family that yes, he’s eating, and yes, he’s sleeping plenty. He looks a lot better than he did when they went to visit him, and the last of the anxiety that Stiles had been nursing about his soulmate falls away when he sees Peter playing with Scar and Derek in the backyard, laughing as the puppy tries to keep up with them.

Peter spends most of the break with Stiles and the family, although there’s one evening where he disappears for a few hours. Stiles doesn’t mind, not this time. He figures Peter deserves some stress relief after finishing his exams.

When it’s time for Peter to head back to school, Ruth loads his car with cooler bags full of frozen leftovers. Peter tries to protest that he can take care of himself, but Ruth just ignores him and keeps loading up the car. In the end Peter just hugs her in thanks and tilts his head back so she can scent him one last time to reassure herself that he’s really okay, just like she’s been doing the whole weekend.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time he makes it home it’s Christmas break.  He spends four days eating until he can hardly move, playing with the puppy, and scenting Stiles. He brings back the pajamas that he stole, and Stiles happily wears them every night before telling Peter he can take them again, because they don’t fit him anymore – they’re about four inches too short now. He also gives Peter a thick woollen blanket that he shyly admits he’s been wrapping himself up in for weeks. Peter inhales deeply, and can smell where Stiles’s scent has worked its way into the very fibres of the blanket. “Thank you, pup,” he says. “This is the best present you could give me.”

“So, I should just keep everything else we got you then?” Stiles asks with a gleam in his eye.

Peter huffs. “You are _such_ a brat. Remind me why I come home again, if you’re just going to be mean to me?”

Stiles is suddenly serious. “Because you miss me. And I miss you. Marked for each other, right?”

Peter smiles softly. “Marked for each other,” he echoes.

He does get a lot of nice presents for Christmas, but he secretly thinks the blanket really is the best one.

 

* * *

 

 

And so it goes, months flying by in the blink of an eye. John and Tom make sure to spend plenty of time in the workshop with Stiles, and his coffee table slowly but surely takes shape. It’s not the _normal_ shape for a coffee table, but it’s definitely a shape. Stiles squints at it doubtfully, and finally declares, “We’ll say it’s a one-off design.”

Tom and John smile quietly into their beers, and once Stiles has gone to bed they make sure that at least the legs are level, though they can’t do much about the shape of the top. If Stiles notices they’ve made some adjustments, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps determinedly chiselling a pattern into the top night after night, tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration while John watches on, first aid kit at the ready.

“You sure you don’t want me to bite him?” Tom asks in an undertone. “I mean I love that kid like my own, but if ever there was someone who needs accelerated healing, he’s it.” Stiles is madly enthusiastic about woodwork, but he has the skill level of…well, a ten year old, so it’s not uncommon for him to pick up injuries.

John snorts. “I hear you.”  A moment later Stiles is hissing between his teeth, and John sighs and grabs the tweezers and the band aids and prepares to fish out yet another splinter.

Stiles also makes a new friend, a kid named Scott who’s new to town, and they’re immediately as thick as thieves. Suddenly Stiles’ conversation when he calls Peter is littered with _Scott said…_ and _Scott’s mom told us…_ and _Scotty and me went_ …  

Peter’s not sure how he feels about Stiles spending so much time with a stranger. He rings his Mom, and she reassures him that Scott’s a good kid. She tells Peter that Scott’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s pleasant enough, and always polite, and completely taken with Stiles, always willing to go along with whatever he suggests. Peter’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not, because some of Stiles’s ideas are sketchy as best. But it means Stiles doesn’t miss Peter quite as much, and Peter finds that if it makes Stiles happy, he can live with it.

Peter makes his own friends at college. He has more than his share of people inviting him to bed, but he politely declines, simply holding up his wrist. What he has with Chris is comfortable, and Stiles is okay with it. Peter doesn’t know how Stiles would feel about him bedding random strangers though, and he doesn’t really want to ask him. It feels like adding anyone else to the mix would just get messy, and he wants to avoid messy if he can.

He learns to keep his life in balance a little better, helped along by frequent visits from the pack. Sometimes it’s Ruth and Tom, sometimes it’s John and Stiles, sometimes it’s Talia, wanting a break away from the kids. Whoever it is, Peter’s always grateful to see them, and he always makes sure the apartment’s clean and tidy before they arrive.

Sometimes there’s another visitor, too.  The first time, Peter comes home one afternoon in February to find Chris sitting on the floor next to his apartment door, one leg stretched out in front of him, other  pulled up close to his body so he can rest his arm on it, drinking a beer from the six pack beside him. “Hey, sweetheart. Got room for a poor boy lookin’ for a place to stay?”

Peter can’t help himself. He sings quietly, “ _I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me_ ,” with a smirk on his face.

Chris raises an eyebrow and drawls, “Now baby, you _know_ that ain’t true. But it’s been a while, thought you might need company. So, you gonna let me in?”

“Depends. Will you make it worth my while?”

Chris’s face splits into a wide smile. “You know it, baby.”

Peter grins, and unlocks the door, while humming the rest of Bohemian Rhapsody. He only stops when Chris pushes him against the wall and kisses him hard enough to take his breath away.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s April before Peter gets home again, but he makes the trip for Stiles’s birthday. There’s no sleepover this year – Stiles has shyly told Peter he wants it to be just them overnight, since Peter’s not there for that long. Instead, there’s an afternoon full of Nerf guns and chases and battles in the preserve, followed by ridiculous amounts of food.  Peter joins in the war of course, as do the rest of the pack. Ruth proves to be a deadly shot, but John takes her down, because he’s not a were, but he’s sneaky as all hell. Stiles thinks it’s hilarious. By the end of the afternoon most of the kids have left, bar one.

The famous Scott.

Peter was introduced to the kid when he arrived, and he hates him on sight. Okay, maybe not _hates_ , but Scott sets his teeth on edge, with his sunny disposition and terminally good nature and goofy expression. And he’s _way_ too fond of Stiles for Peter’s liking.

Peter stands on the porch and watches as Scott and Stiles wander around the edge of the preserve with Scar trailing happy after them, and when he sees Scott throw an arm around Stile’s shoulders, he can’t help the way the corner of his lip curls up, or the tiny snarl that sneaks out.  His mother’s standing next to him, and she swats him with a dishtowel. “Peter Hale, are you _jealous_ of that eleven year old boy?”

“No,” he mutters. His mother swats him again, clearly able to hear the lie, and he amends, “Not jealous, exactly.”

Ruth gives him a knowing smile. You’re used to Stiles being focussed you when you’re home, and now your nose is out of joint because he’s got a new friend.”

Peter sighs. “Is it stupid?”

Ruth gives him a wry smile. ” It’s hardly unexpected. You never did like to share your toys. “

“Stiles isn’t a toy,” Peter protests. “And I’m happy he has a best friend. It’s just… _seeing_ them together.”

Ruth nods, “Your wolf doesn’t like it. I understand, honestly. There was a girl in your father’s class who used to come onto him, even though she knew he had a soulmate. My wolf wanted to rip her head off, and the rest of me wanted to wipe the floor with her. I did get her to back off, though.”

Peter turns, surprised. His mother’s the least violent person he knows. “Mom, did you beat someone up?”

She laughs softly, and shakes her head. “No. But I did slash her tires one night after she tried to kiss your father.”

That startles a laugh out of Peter. Stiles hears the noise, and turns towards them, face lighting up when he sees Peter there. He comes running over, climbing the porch steps and wrapping his arms around Peter’s ribs. “Glad you’re here, Peter,” he murmurs as he holds on tight, and Peter feels his wolf settling.

He takes another look at Scott, and decides that really, there’s nothing to be jealous of. Stiles is his, through and through. _Scott_ doesn’t have Mieczyslaw written on his wrist.  Besides, his jaw’s crooked.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles isn't going to stay a little kid forever, Peter realizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Just a note, Stiles injures himself in this chapter. It's not graphic, but I thought I'd give you a heads up.

 

 

Turns out, John was right. Oscar’s a  damn drooler. But he’s not just _any_ drooler. No - he’s a _selective_ drooler, and he only targets John. The dog will wait till he’s settled in his easy chair and then come over and rest his head on John’s leg with a harrumph, and then gaze up at John soulfully till he gives in and starts scratching behind Oscar’s ears. John swears that the dog honest to god _smiles_ when he’s getting petted, and as his mouth hangs open, long trails of saliva will dribble out, inevitably ending up in a massive wet spot on John’s pant leg.

John will try unsuccessfully to push the dog away, but Scar will stay mulishly put, dribbling and smiling, a solid, heavy presence. It’s gotten so that when John sits down now, he automatically throws a cloth over his leg, much to the amusement of the rest of the pack.

“Yeah, you laugh now, wait till he does it to you,” John had muttered at first, but Scar _never does it to anyone else_. Nope, his dribbly shows of affection are reserved exclusively for John. Scar did try it with Tom, just the once. But Tom was wearing his dress pants, and he flashed his eyes and rumbled in warning, and Scar seemed to get the message. Now, he sticks to John. He doesn’t even drool on Stiles, although in fairness, that’s probably because Stiles never sits still long enough for Scar to get settled, and his legs are far too bony to be comfortable. But John? He’s got a nice thick set of thigh muscles, just made for a year - old puppy to rest his head against.

John groans as he feels the dampness soaking through the cloth on his leg, but he still scritches behind the dog’s ears a little more. He decides he’ll call Stiles to come and get his damn dog, and then he can get up and get changed. But just then Scar yawns widely, actually wiping his face against John’s leg, before making a happy warbling noise and bumping John’s hand with his head in an effort to get more attention, his tail wagging ceaselessly.

John takes in the contented expression on the pup’s face, and decides what the hell. He’ll call Stiles a little later.

John sighs and scritches, and Scar grins and drools.

* * *

 

Peter survives his first year of college, but instead of heading off on vacation to celebrate like his classmates, he drives home and into the arms of a waiting pack. He barely manages to get out of the car before he’s engulfed by his family hugging him and scenting him, pulling him from person to person as they all let their wolves take over, just this once. Peter grins, and lets himself be smothered. It’s been a long time since he made it home, what with end of year exams and assessments, and this pack time, is important. He’s missed the family just as much as they’ve missed him. His wolf rumbles contentedly when Tom finally steps forward and pulls Peter into his arms, murmuring, “Welcome home, son.” Peter willingly tilts his head back, eyes closed, and Tom hums in approval at the show of submission. He rubs his stubble down Peter’s throat, marking him as pack again, and Peter lets out a tiny sigh as his body goes lax.

When he opens his eyes, Tom’s smiling at him fondly. He looks around, but there’s no sign of Stiles. He doesn’t even need to ask. “Go on, your boy’s waiting for you inside,” Ruth tells him. “He ‘s in the kitchen – he has a surprise.”  She nods towards the house, and Peter _definitely_ doesn’t run up the stairs - he’s far too dignified for that. He does walk awfully fast with some running – like motions, though. He gets inside and finds Stiles waiting next to a cake that has _Welcome Home_ on it in surprisingly tidy writing. He sweeps Stiles up in his arms, causing him to squeal, and nuzzles into his throat, inhaling the aroma of wood chips, powdered sugar and sweat. He pulls his face away and places a quick kiss on the top of Stiles’s head, asking, ”Have you been in the workshop, pup? You smell like it.”

Stiles nods, arms wrapped round Peter’s neck. “Pops had to work, and Alpha said I needed a distraction before I paced a hole in the carpet.” Peter’s lips quirk up at the way Stiles refers to his father by his title. Nobody else does it, because it’s meant for formal occasions, but Stiles? He’d just appropriated it one day, casually saying, ”Pass the potatoes, Alpha?” Somehow, it had stuck, and it never fails to make Tom smile when he hears it. Peter guesses it makes sense, and it’s a lot less confusing than the whole “My dad/ Your dad” or sometimes “My _other_ dad” thing that they had going on there for a while.

He turns his attention back to Stiles, who’s telling him that he’s finally, finally finished the coffee table.  “I’d love to see it pup, but first, I need to just be around you for a while. Come upstairs?” Peter suggests. Stiles nods eagerly, and Peter carries him up. They spend an hour sprawled next to each other, both of them letting out occasional contented sighs as they soak in the feeling of security and happiness that being together brings them. It’s only when Peter’s stomach starts to growl that they stir themselves and go downstairs.

After they eat the cake, which is surprisingly good, Peter gets taken out to the workshop and Stiles reveals his masterpiece. It’s more of a rhomboid than a rectangle, and there are a few dark spots on the top that Stiles freely admits are bloodstains from where the chisel slipped, but the pattern he’s worked into it is painstakingly done, he’s sanded it down and stained it, and it’s actually not half bad. “It’s quirky. I love it,” Peter declares. Stiles beams at him, and informs him that Mama Ruth suggested it stay out here for the Dads to use, since they need somewhere to put their beers.

Peter spends the rest of the day getting pulled into random hugs by Stiles and the other members of his family, wrestling his nephew and nieces, and being licked by the dog. It’s good to be home.

 

* * *

 

The break is over before Peter knows it, and suddenly it’s time to go back to school. The sting of leaving is lessened slightly by one memorable night spent rolling around in Chris Argent’s big bed, sucking bruises into the other man’s skin as they fuck and lick and fondle; taking their time, making it last. Stiles is sleeping over at Scott’s, so there’s no rush to get home, and Peter finally stumbles out of Chris’s door, loose limbed and sleepy, sometime around 5 am. He’s still sleeping when Stiles gets back, and his young soulmate definitely gives him the side eye, but Stiles doesn’t say anything, so Peter thinks nothing more of it.

But it must awaken a spark of possessiveness in Stiles somewhere, because when it’s time for Peter to leave, Stiles presses yet another blanket into his hands.  Peter quirks a brow - this is the quilt off _their_ bed. “I figured it smells like both of us,” Stiles says with a quirk of his lips. “To remind you that you’re mine.” He declares it with a fierce possessiveness, holding Peter’s gaze and daring him to say different.

“Always, pup. Only you.” Peter pulls Stiles close and wraps the quilt around both of them, despite the heat of the day. “Now it’ll smell a little more like you, and I’ll be sure to know who I belong to,” he whispers in Stiles’s ear.  Stiles leans against him and hums, and his scent changes until it’s something warm and syrupy and contented, so Peter knows he’s done the right thing.

When Peter gets back to his apartment in the city, he spends the afternoon wrapped in the blanket, eating cookies and pouting about how long it will be till he can next get home.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turns out, it’s not as bad as he feared.  Because he’s more organized, has a better routine, and has tightened up his study habits, Peter makes it home far more regularly, every second month at least. Granted, he always has books and his laptop with him, but he and Stiles sit in near silence at the table and he studies while Stiles does his homework, and it’s peaceful, and perfect.  He slips in the odd visit to Chris while he’s there, but he’s always discreet, and Stiles always pretends not to notice, although he tends to get a little clingy the next day.  

Peter learns to tolerate Scott, because he’s become something of a fixture in the pack house now. The first time Scott let slip to Ruth that he was going home after school to an empty house, Ruth had insisted that his mom could collect him after her shift had finished.  And it had simply carried on from there. Melissa had tried protesting when Scott started sleeping over, but Ruth wasn’t having it. “ He’s welcome to come to us, sleep over when you need him to. He’s practically pack anyway,” Ruth had told her briskly, and Melissa, knowing a losing battle when she saw one, had given in. In return, she takes the boys sometimes on her weekends off, claiming it’s only fair.

Peter hasn’t ever been home when Scott sleeps over, but he knows there’s no trace of Scott’s scent in their room, and he asks his Mom where Scott sleeps. Ruth tells him that Stiles doesn’t bring Scott into Peter’s room at all, but instead they sleep in what’s meant to be Stiles’s room. When Peter mentions it to Stiles, he shrugs. “Well, yeah. That’s _our_ room. It can only smell of us, or your wolf will get the sulks.”

“The sulks?” Peter’s intrigued. Stiles isn’t wrong, but he’d like to know who told him.

“Sulks,” Stiles confirms. When he sees Peter’s amused expression he admits, “The first time Scott stayed over I didn’t really think about it, I was just gonna set him up in here. I figured we could share the bed.” Peter can’t control the low growl that escapes him when he hears that. Stiles hastens to reassure him, ”Don’t worry, we didn’t. Alpha told me it would make your wolf really upset to smell someone else in your territory. Mama Ruth said the smells would make you a sulkywolf.” Stiles waits a beat before adding, “I bet you _would_ be a Sulkywolf, too. I bet you’d curl your lip and growl and look all hurt.”

Peter would be insulted, if it wasn’t so accurate. The mere _thought_ of Scott being in his space makes him want to pout and whine. Still, he decides that Stiles needs to be put in his place for coming up with a name like that. He looks at where Stiles is sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed, and in a flash he grabs his ankles and drags him up the bed before pinning him under him. He leans in close, and says in his most menacing tone, “ _I am not. A Sulkywolf_.” He growls exaggeratedly and pretends to snap his teeth near Stiles’s ear, while Stiles giggles helplessly. From there it devolves into Peter tickling Stiles till he’s squealing and calling for someone to rescue him, and the pair of them end up collapsing on the bed, Stiles flopping his head down on Peter’s chest as he tries to catch his breath and continues to let out the occasional huff of laughter.

Before Peter leaves that time, Stiles presents him with a handcarved keychain. He’s used hot iron to burn the word into the wooden tag, and Stiles has a gleam in his eye when he hands it over.

Peter snorts when he reads it. _Sulkywolf_.

 

* * *

 

 

Three weeks after Stiles’s twelfth birthday,  Peter’s home on a Saturday morning when a wave of terror washes over him, sharp and desperate. He immediately knows it’s Stiles, and he starts to panic when all he can feel is _hurtpanicpainbloodno_. His fangs lengthen at his mate's distress and he pulls his phone out and desperately dials home. His mom answers, and he barely chokes out, “Mom - “before she’s saying, “Peter? It’s Stiles. He’s had an accident in the workshop. John’s taking him to the hospital now.”

Peter slurs around his fangs. “ _Hospital?_ ”

“Calm down, Peter. Stiles thought it was a good idea to sneak out to the workshop and start a new project unsupervised. Had a run in with the table saw, and took the top of his finger off. Nothing fatal.”

Peter takes a deep breath as her words sink in _. Not fatal._ His heart, which had been racing, slows a little, and his fangs and claws retract. “He’s really fine?”

“Well he’s hurt and upset, obviously. But he’ll live.”

“Why would he think it was a good idea to use power tools on his own?” Peter wonders aloud.

“Because he’s twelve, and he’s _Stiles_ ,” Ruth answers tartly. And really, that sums it up. Despite Ruth’s assurances that Stiles is fine, Peter needs to _see_ , his wolf demands it, so after emailing his professors that he’ll be away for a week, he drives back without stopping, leaving the speed limit in his dust and making the five hour trip in just under four.  

As he pulls up the driveway, John walks over to the car and taps on the driver’s side window. Peter rolls it down, and John gives him a long, hard look. “I’m gonna go ahead and assume you’re psychic, son, because for you to have made it back here this early you must have left an hour before Stiles hurt himself.” Peter wisely says nothing, and John sighs and steps aside to let him out of the car. As he goes to walk away though, John grabs his elbow. “I’m serious, Peter. You’re a good kid, but the last thing I need is to scrape your sorry hide off the road and then explain to my son what happened. Slow down.”

Peter nods, suitably chastened, and mumbles out an apology, but really, his mind’s only on one thing  - Stiles. “He’s inside?” he asks, and John nods, walking with him.

“He’s high as a kite on pain meds, and the pack are taking care of him.” John rubs a hand down his face tiredly. “Once the little bastard’s recovered, he and I are gonna be talking about this, rest assured.”

Peter nods his agreement. “I don’t suppose I get to tear him a new one as well?” he asks. Because Stiles has given him the fright of his life and he _really_ doesn’t appreciate it. He figures he’s entitled to share his displeasure.

But John puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him before he enters the house. “Nope. You don’t get to do that. That’s for Tom and I to deal with, as his father, and as pack Alpha. You’re here to make him feel better.” Peter starts to protest, but John continues, “Think this through, son. Is that how you want Stiles to see you? As one of the adults who’s yelling at him? Or do you want him to see you as a partner, someone who supports him even when he does something stupid?”

Peter’s mouth shuts with a click and John nods,“Uh huh. That’s what I thought. Kid already knows he’s in trouble, he doesn’t need you to tell him. Go see your boy, and he can tell you what he did, exactly.”

John releases Peter’s shoulder, and Peter gives him a soft, “Thank you,” before he walks into the house. He doesn’t know what he expected to see, but he’s greeted by the sight of Stiles wrapped up in one of Peter’s old t shirts, laying across Ruth’s lap on the couch as she pets his hair and murmurs soothing words. Jealousy flares up in Peter’s gut for a moment, hot and sharp, before being replaced by relief at seeing Stiles. He has his left hand heavily bandaged, and his face is swollen from crying, but he doesn’t smell like he’s in pain, and the bond settles as Peter reassures himself that Stiles isn’t in any immediate danger. Peter strides across the room and kneels in front of Stiles, extending a hand and running a fingertip down Stiles’s face. “Hey, baby, what did you do?” he asks softly.

Stiles turns to him, eyes glazed, and his mouth widens into a smile. John was right, thinks Peter – this kid’s out of it. “Peeeeter…you came!’ he cries out happily, before frowning. “Peter, I hurt myself,” he says, holding out his bandaged hand for inspection. Peter takes the hand, careful not to bump the finger that’s encased in white. He closes his eyes and concentrates, but there’s very little pain to take.

“We’ve taken care of him for you, baby,” his mother says with a soft smile. “Between the drugs and us, he’s not feeling anything right now.”

Stiles nods, and giggles. “I got all the drugs, Peter. They say drugs are bad, but they’re not.” His eyes go wide and serious as he leans forwards and shout-whispers,  “They’re good! They’re _really, really, good!”_

Ruth moves over to make room for Peter next to her, and he sits down and pulls Stiles into his lap, his wolf immediately calming at the contact. Stiles half turns his head to look at him. “I thought I could make the – the thing, you know, the - the _thing_ , work,” he explains, making a vague sawing motion with his other hand. “But I couldn’t. It was _hard_. And, and I missed the wood, and got my hand,” he concludes unhappily.

“You’re still just a fearless little goblin, aren’t you?” Peter sighs, taking over the stroking of Stiles’s hair. Stiles nods in agreement, and his eyes drift closed for about half a minute before they jerk open again.

“Peeeeter! You’re here! I hurt myself,” he says, waving his bandaged hand around again, and proceeds to ramble at length about the _wood_ , and the _thing_ , and how he’ll never be a hand model now.

 _Stoned_ John mouths at Peter, and Peter can’t help the smile that plays around his lips. As much as he hates seeing Stiles injured, he’s a hilarious tiny drunk. “Shhh, pup. Why don’t you try and sleep,” he suggests finally, settling Stiles more firmly on his lap.

“Uh huh. Love you,” Stiles slurs out, before closing his eyes and passing out. Peter doesn’t even think Stiles knows he said it, but his wolf purrs, satisfied.

 

* * *

 

The injury’s actually pretty impressive – Stiles has taken the top of his middle finger off just under the nail, leaving a shorn off stump. Peter gets to see it when they change the bandages, and all he can do is shake his head helplessly and murmur, ”Oh, pup, I’m so sorry,” as Stiles pouts over his loss.

Once the drugs wear off, Stiles is miserable, and Peter spends the next week being Stiles’s personal body pillow and pain relief. The rest of the pack offer to help, but Peter snaps at them and curls around Stiles protectively. He knows it’s ridiculous, knows its just his wolf acting up, but he doesn’t care. He needs to take care of Stiles, make sure he’s safe, and he’s the only one who can do it. He feeds him by hand, takes his pain at the slightest sign of discomfort, and only relinquishes his care when Tom stands there, hands on hips, and commands him with a flash of red eyes to “Go take a break, son. Stiles is fine with me.”

And then Peter will go and shower and eat and shave, while all the while his wolf whimpers and whines and strains to get back to Stiles. And not once does he reprimand Stiles, tell him he was stupid, or ask him what he was thinking. He keeps John’s words firmly in the forefront of his mind. It’s not his job to discipline Stiles - he’s here to comfort him.

The discipline comes from the parents. The day before Peter goes back to school, Tom comes downstairs and issues a curt, “Stiles? Office.”

Stiles’s bottom lip quivers, and Peter sees him swallowing convulsively. They both know that the office means Serious Business. “I don’t want Alpha to yell at me,” Stiles whispers, curling in on himself.

“Shhh, pup. It’ll be all right.” Peter reassures him. Peter knows from experience that his dad won’t yell – no, it’s worse than that. His dad will be _disappointed in you._ He’s possibly been called to the office a time or two himself, and it’s never pleasant, but Tom’s never unfair, either. The punishment always fits the crime.

Stiles reluctantly goes, dragging Peter with him for comfort. When they get to the office door though, Peter lets go, before giving Stiles a tiny shove in through the door. John, Ruth and Tom are all in there, stony faced and silent. Stiles hesitates, but then he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, walking heavily, as though he’s going to his execution. It probably feels like he is, Peter reflects. He hears Tom say, ”Shut the door, son,” before there’s a click, and he can’t hear anything else, the room being soundproofed.

Stiles is in there for a long time, and when he comes out his eyes are red-rimmed. He throws his arms around Peter when he sees him. Peter pulls Stiles close and wraps his arms around his back, making soothing noises. He throws a questioning look at Tom who’s just coming out the door, but Tom shakes his head minutely. What happens in the office, stays in the office. It’s always been that way – it’s up to Stiles if he wants to share. Peter turns his attention back to Stiles. “You okay, pup?”

Stiles nods into his chest. “’m grounded. And I’m not allowed in the workshop for a _month_.”  He lifts his head to look at Peter. “I’m sorry I was stupid. You had to come home, and you’ve missed school, and you must be _so_ _mad_ at me.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m not mad.” Stiles gives him a dubious look, but Peter repeats “I’m not mad. I just want you to be safe, pup. You’re precious to me.”

Stiles sighs. “That’s what _they_ said. That they want me safe. They said they’re protecting me from myself, and that’s why there are new locks going on the workshop.”

“Doesn’t it already have a lock?” Peter asks.

“I might have borrowed the key when my dad was sleeping,” Stiles admits.

Peter snorts. “I’m not even surprised. You never did tell me what possessed you to go out there alone.”

Stiles is silent for a long moment, before huffing out, “I’m sick of being treated like a little kid. I don’t need someone holding my hand. I’m _twelve_ , Peter. I’m practically a teenager. And I mean, I used the saw before, with Alpha helping, so I figured it couldn’t be that hard. I guess I didn’t realize how much of the work he was doing.” And really, Peter can see it. Stiles cutting timber, his dad’s strong hands covering his and guiding the cut, Stiles unaware of exactly how much control Tom was taking.

He sighs. “You made a mistake, that’s all. We all do it. Remember last year when you had to come and remind me to eat, and to sleep?”

Stiles nods against his chest. “We rescued you,” he recalls.

“Were you mad at me because you had to come rescue me?” Peter asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “I was just worried about you. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Peter puts a hand under Stiles chin, tilting it up so he can look him in the eye. “This is exactly the same, baby. You needed me. I’ll always come if you need me.” Stiles nods, and some of the tension leaves his body. They walk down the stairs with Peter’s arm slung over Stiles’s shoulders. “So, grounded for a month, huh?”

“Yeah. Alpha said he thought they’d taught me better than that, and he expects me to take some time to think about what I’ve done, so he grounded me.“ Peter makes a sympathetic sound. “You know what the worst thing was though? The worst thing was my Dad. He said I was a damn fool and I could have died, and he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost me too _.”_ Peter winces at that, imagining it.  “And Mama Ruth said I was practically her own, and she never wants to have to hose my blood off the ground like that again, and then she cried a little and that made _me_ cry,” Stiles rambles.  

Peter's heart aches for Stiles, but he understands a little better what John told him about leaving the discipline up to the parents. He squeezes Stiles’s shoulder softly, comforting.  “You know pup, I think you got off lightly,” he says after a moment. “I mean, think about it. How long are you banned from the tools?”

“A month.”

“And how long till your finger heals?” Peter asks gently.

“Um, maybe six weeks – _oh_ ,” Stiles breathes as understanding hits him. It’s not really a punishment if he’s banned from doing something he can’t do anyway.

“Exactly. Maybe they think losing your career as a hand model is punishment enough,” Peter teases, and Stiles goes pink and ducks his head shyly at the mention of his drugged ramblings.

“It was the drugs,” he mumbles.

“Oh, I know pup, but it was still something to see. I can’t wait till you’re old enough to drink, that’ll be an experience for us both,” Peter says, smirking.

Stiles sighs. “Am I gonna be one of those guys who has two drinks and then loves everyone in this bar?”

“Probably. But don’t worry. I’ll be there to look after you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Peter drops a kiss on the top of Stiles’s head, and Stiles sighs happily, punishment forgotten for now.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes eight weeks for the finger to heal, mainly because Stiles keeps unwrapping it. He has a wonderful time grossing out all the other kids at school with his stump as it goes through the various stages of healing.  The second week Stiles is back, John gets called to the school. Apparently, Stiles and Scott have been charging the other kids a dollar to look at the wound. John makes them return the money to every kid they fleeced. He has to admit, he’s impressed - they’ve made fifty dollars in a week.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s another conversation that takes place in the office after Peter’s gone back. Tom sits behind his desk looking serious, and as pack Alpha, formally offers the Stilinski boys the bite. John looks surprised, but Stiles just nods, as if he was expecting it.

“I’m not saying you have to answer right now, I’m just saying the offer’s there,” Tom clarifies. “And I’d like to know your wishes in case either of you are in a situation where you _can’t_ give consent.”

Stiles looks at John briefly, before nodding. “Yes. Not yet, but yeah, please. And if I’m hurt bad enough, definitely.”

John raises his brows. “You sure about this, kid?”

Stiles nods firmly. “You know I’ve always wanted the bite, ever since I met Peter.”

John remembers Stiles when he was younger, asking if he’d get to be a werewolf too. He just didn’t take him seriously. He should have known better – Stiles has always been determined. “You know it might not take?” he warns.

“I know, Dad. But I still want it.” Stiles casts a questioning glance at Tom, who’s trying, and failing, to hide a pleased smile. "Can I let you know when I'm ready?"

“Of course, Stiles, although I’d prefer to wait till you’re older.” Stiles grins widely as he nods his agreement. Tom turns to John, then. “I guess you and I have talked about this often enough that I know your answer, but I have to ask. Yes or no?”

John thinks about what would happen to Stiles if John got himself killed in the line of duty. “If it’s a matter of life and death, yeah. But I’m gonna go ahead and pass otherwise.”

Stiles holds the knowledge that he’s going to take the bite close, turning it over in his mind and savoring it. He doesn’t mention it to Peter, not yet. He decides he’ll tell him when it’s time, surprise him.

 

* * *

 

 

The year both flies by and crawls, depending on the kind of week Peter’s having. The times when he’s buried under assignments and missing his family, it seems like it will never be over. But on those days when he’s home for weekends or term break and he’s relaxed and happy, the days seem to go in an instant. The weekend when Chris turns up at his door, holding up a bottle of Southern Comfort, wearing an honest to god cowboy hat and grinning, Peter loses track of time completely.

He manages to go home for a week and a half over Christmas, with some judicious juggling of assignments, and it’s worth the late nights and extra study to see the look on Stiles’s face when Peter tells him how long he’s there for. They spend most of the break catching up, wrapped in each other and the pack, and when Peter goes back to school it’s with a deep feeling of contentment.  

He doesn’t get to make it back next until February, and while he’s away, Stiles has the temerity to grow _again_. And he doesn’t just get taller. When Peter wakes in the morning, it’s to the familiar feeling of Stiles curled up against his back, and the less familiar feeling of something hard poking into his thigh. Stiles is pressing forwards in his sleep, rubbing an erection against Peter’s leg through his pyjama pants. Peter lies there, frozen, trying to decide how to deal with this. He’s pretty sure Stiles doesn’t even know what he’s doing, but Peter needs him to stop.  He carefully shifts a half inch to the left, far enough that Stiles loses contact with him. A minute later, Peter hears a whispered, “Shit, shit, shit,” and then Stiles is scrambling out of bed. Peter keeps his eyes closed and feigns sleep, and when Stiles comes back to bed sometime later freshly showered, Peter doesn’t say a word, and pretends not to notice Stiles’s flushed cheeks and the scent of arousal, but his _wolf_ , his wolf purrs at the thought that his mate wants him.

Peter looks at Stiles properly that day, and is shocked to realise that he’s no longer all elbows and knees, but that he’s starting to acquire some lean muscle. His features are beginning to sharpen, and it’s evident that he’s only going to get more attractive as he gets older. He even catches glimpses of a few wisps of armpit hair when Stiles changes. It hits Peter that Stiles is growing up, and he’s not sure how he feels about it. Intellectually, he knows that it’s only to be expected that he’ll be attracted to his soulmate, but he doesn’t whether he’s ready for that to happen yet. Stiles is just a _boy_ , and Peter’s not that way inclined.

But his wolf is … _pleased,_ in a way Peter can’t pinpoint, at the signs of Stiles maturing. He finds himself scenting Stiles all weekend, desperate to catch the hint of the hormones working their way through Stiles’s body. He feels like a creep.

He wonders if twenty two’s too young to be classified as a dirty old man.

 

* * *

 

When he comes home again  for Stiles’s birthday in April and has to restrain himself from pinning Stiles against a wall to scent him, he knows he has a problem. He manages to drag his father away from the couch, and they head out to the workshop for a talk.

Peter doesn’t know where to start, but Tom settles him into a chair, hands him a beer, and waits. Finally, Peter blurts out, “I think there’s something wrong with me. I’m starting to find Stiles attractive. My wolf just wants to be _all over him.”_

Tom’s quiet for a long time, and Peter would be worried except that he knows from his expression that Tom’s considering what he’s said. Finally his father asks, ”Do you want to sleep with him?”

“What? No! God, he’s still a kid!” Peter gasps, appalled at the very idea.

Tom smiles, then. “Your wolf’s attracted to his mate. That’s a _good_ thing, son. And Stiles won’t stay a kid – he’s growing up, and your wolf’s excited to see the man he’ll turn into. If you wanted him now, then we’d be having a whole different conversation. But this, what you’re feeling? That’s how it works between soulmates. You’re gonna be drawn to each other, earlier and more strongly than a couple who are just dating.“ He cocks an eyebrow at Peter. ”You think he hasn’t started noticing your body as well?”

Peter pauses, thinking about it. And okay, Stiles has always been handsy, but lately he’s started to run his hands casually down Peter’s arms and across his shoulders every chance he gets. Peter looks at his dad, helpless. “So, what do I do?”

“Not a damn thing. You pretend you don’t notice, otherwise you’ll embarrass him all to hell.” Tom leans over and pats Peter’s shoulder. “We always knew these years were going to be awkward.  Just… let him take the lead. If he doesn’t mention it, you don’t.”

Peter’s quiet as he absorbs his father’s advice. He thinks about all the times he scrambled out of bed early to take care of his morning wood in the shower, and how he would have felt if Stiles had mentioned it. He has three months of school left. He wonders if he’d be a bad person if he stayed away the whole time, while he wraps his head around this.

It turns out not to be an issue.  That same afternoon he sees Stiles dragging John out to the workshop, and they’re in there for a long time, but there are no sounds of sawing or hammering. When they finally come out, Stiles is blushing, and John’s grinning. Stiles huffs something at his dad, Peter can just make out the words, “ –  like embarrassing me, don’t you Pops?” And John’s amused, “Damn straight, son. Now go talk to him.”

Peter hears Stiles's exasperated huff from where he is. He pretends not to notice Stiles approaching, just keeps throwing the ball for Scar like he’s been doing for the last half an hour. The dog has no hesitation in telling him Stiles is near though, dropping the ball and running over to Stiles, leaning against him with his head tilted back for a scratch. Stiles pats the dog till he wanders away, satisfied. Then he looks at Peter, hesitant, before finally tilting his head to indicate that they should go inside.

Peter follows him obediently, ignoring John’s smirking. When they get inside, Stiles leads Peter up to their room. Peter sits up against the headboard with an arm extended for Stiles to squirrel underneath – he has a feeling that whatever it is. Stiles will want to hold this conversation with his head buried against Peter’s side, the way he does with most sensitive topics.

“So,” Stiles starts hesitantly, and his scent turns sour with nervousness and shame. In that moment Peter knows exactly what the discussion in the workshop with John was about. “Maybe, um, we might need to sleep in separate beds.” As Peter expected, Stiles presses his face into Peter’s side as he speaks, and Peter’s heart goes out to him - this can’t be easy. He knows Stiles is doing his best, and decides to help smooth the process along a little.

“Is it my snoring?” Peter says gently.

Stiles tilts his head back and does a reasonable impression of a goldfish for a minute, before stammering out, “What?”

“Snoring,” Peter repeats. “Mom told me they could hear me through the walls last night. Is that why?”

Stiles takes a moment to catch on, but then he nods “ Yeah. I did have trouble getting to sleep.” His heart’s absolutely racing at the lie.

“I’m so sorry, pup. I know you need your rest. And I guess you’re used to sleeping in peace with me away so much?” There, thinks Peter. Surely that’s an opening you could safely drive a Mack truck through.

Stiles grabs the wheel of said Mack truck with both hands. “Yeah, I am. And you’re probably used to having the whole bed to yourself too, huh?”

Peter nods. “I do tend to starfish. So you’d be more comfy in your own room?”

Peter can see the tension draining from Stiles when Peter makes the suggestion. “You don’t mind? I’ll still come for cuddles,” he adds.

Peter smiles like it’s the best idea he’s ever heard. His wolf whines at him, but he determinedly ignores it _._ “I wouldn’t mind at all, pup. You need your sleep. You’re getting so tall now, you probably want some room to stretch out.”

Stiles nods vigorously. “I’ll definitely sleep better in here.”

Peter thinks very carefully about what he says next. “I think that you need your own space for a while. I think it would make things easier for us, just for now.”

“Just for now,” Stiles agrees, blushing inexplicably, and the smallest tendril of arousal reaches Peter’s nostrils. Peter smiles to himself. It’s nice to know Stiles wants him, even if there are miles to go before they reach that particular crossroads.

He slides down the bed so Stiles can rest his head on Peter’s chest, and they snuggle up together, both studiously ignoring the tent in Stiles’s pants and the elephant in the room.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets an offer he can't refuse.  
> Stiles goes on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey, guess who had a public holiday today?  
> Guess who spent it writing this for you?  
> You're welcome.

 

The plan has always been for Peter to spend a year in Beacon Hills once he graduates, strengthening his pack bonds and working for his dad. Tom runs We’re Wolves, a fitness centre exclusively for people who want to take their training to the next level by working out with, well, wolves. The equipment’s heavy duty, as are the workouts, and it’s a huge success.  More than one officer from the Sheriff’s department has come there wanting to improve their hand to hand skills, including a certain sheriff who gets his ass handed to him on the regular.

Tom has a waiting list of people who are eager to either train under him or spar with him, and plenty of them would be just as happy to work out with his son. So it makes sense for Peter to help his dad out with his workload while he decides what he wants to do. He’s actually looking forward to having some time to just work, and rest, and _be,_ without the pressure of assignments and exams and life.

It’s a good plan, too. It’s just a shame Peter derails it by being too damn clever.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter’s third year of college has gone remarkably well for him. One of his lecturers has taken a shine to him, saying he has a natural talent when it comes to interpreting folklore and separating myth from fact. He always seems to be able to ask _just_ the right question, the one that gets to the heart of whether there actually was a rash of kanima attacks in Japan in  the 1920’s, or whether it was a case of there being a trend of importing pet alligators and setting them free.

Peter soaks up the praise, and preens when she tells him he’s the most gifted student she’s had in years. But he’s absolutely not prepared for it when just before school finishes, he gets an email offering him a position with her as a research assistant. The job will involve travelling to far flung locations around Australia for six months to a year, talking to pack elders and taking oral histories.

Peter stares at the screen, speechless. Really, for someone who hoards knowledge the way Peter does, it’s a dream come true, and an opportunity that he’ll never get again. Quite apart from the status that comes with the job, there’s the chance to travel, to learn pack histories from the source. He _wants it._

But he’d be gone a long time. And he’d have to break it to Stiles.

He groans, and drops his head onto the desk with a thunk.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, he calls his Mom and tells her about the offer, unable to keep it to himself. “I really want this, Mom. I’ll never get this chance again. But what about Stiles?”

“You’re worried he won’t cope,” she summarises. “You think he can’t live without you, that you’ll both pine, and you’re not sure he’ll ever forgive you if you go away again.” Peter makes a noise like a wounded walrus in response to her accurate assessment. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine a year without seeing his boy. Never mind Stiles, he’s not sure _he’ll_ cope. His mother interrupts his train of thought by asking “Peter, sweetheart, when would you be leaving?”

“Not until after Christmas. It’ll take a couple of months to sort out the paperwork.”

“And when do you have to give an answer?”

“Three weeks.”

“So, you’ll ask Stiles for his opinion. Explain it to him, like you did to me,” she suggests.

“And if he doesn’t want me to go?” Peter asks.

“That’s something you two will have to sort out yourselves. But I will say this  –  Stiles doesn’t just sit here waiting for you to come home, you know. He has friends, a life of his own.”

“I know that,” Peter replies, even though in truth a tiny part of him _had_ thought that Stiles spent his time waiting for Peter’s calls. “I’ll talk to him when I come home.”

 

* * *

 

When Peter arrives home from college for good and first sees Stiles, he pulls him into a fierce hug and scents him deeply. Stiles smells, as always, like sugar and sawdust, but now there’s a deeper note to his scent, something sweet and spicy, cloves and star anise and honey, and if Peter scents deeply enough, he can smell a hint of Stiles the man, not Stiles the boy. It’s intoxicating, and Peter keeps his head buried in the crook of Stiles’ neck, inhaling  like he’s a starving man who’s been welcomed to a feast. The presence of his soulmate settles over him like a thick blanket on a cold winter’s night, warm and reassuring, and he hums with pleasure as he nuzzles against him. Stiles hums in response, obviously feeling the same rush of reassurance and comfort, but eventually he starts to squirm, finally shrugging at Peter, complaining, “You need to shave, you're all scratchy.” Peter rasps his stubble over Stiles’s neck once more, just to tease him.

Peter finally pulls his face away with reluctance, and as they go inside Stiles babbles about how he and Scott have decided that they’re going to play lacrosse next year, and about the laser tag party he went to last week, and how him and some of the guys want to go camping. On and on he talks, about school and his friends and their plans for the summer and Peter realizes with a jolt that his mother was right. In his mind he’s had a picture of Stiles as a six year old who’s whole world revolves around Peter, but Stiles’s world is so much bigger than him, now. It makes him optimistic about the conversation they’re going to have. Maybe Stiles won’t react as badly as he thinks. Peter allows himself a glimmer of hope. Maybe he’ll get to go after all.

 

* * *

 

 Peter has thought this through carefully. He’s going to take Stiles out tomorrow for curly fries and a milkshake, and he’s going to very gently raise the prospect of not coming home just yet. He’s going to explain it all in depth, what an amazing chance this is for him, and what an honor it is to be asked. Hopefully Stiles won’t be too upset with him. Stiles, of course, blows his plan all to hell. They’re sitting outside on the porch swing and as Stiles lays his head on Peter’s shoulder, he asks, “So, what’s got a stick up your butt?”

“What? Nothing, why do you say that?” Peter snaps, immediately defensive.

Stiles waved a hand dismissively, and Peter can see the shorn down tip of his finger. “You’re not subtle. You’re all twitchy. What gives?” He sits up suddenly, and asks, “You’re not sick, are you?”

“Werewolves don’t really get sick, Stiles. You know that,” Peter points out.

“Well, what is it? I can read you like a book, and you’re hiding something.” Stiles folds his arms over his chest and he gets that determined look in his eye that Peter knows means he won’t let this go.

Peter tries, anyway. “It’s nothing bad pup, I promise. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

But Stiles isn’t having it. “Nope. If you don’t tell me now, I’ll just worry all night. So spill.”

Peter groans, and turns to face Stiles. “Determined little shit, aren’t you?”

“Peter David Hale, you tell me what’s going on this second, or so help me I’ll fetch your father,” Stiles declares, in a scarily accurate imitation of Ruth. Peter snorts at that. Stiles just grins, extends a hand, and leads Peter upstairs to their room. It’s where all the important conversations happen.

They settle on the bed, leaning against each other, and Peter explains about the professor, and the offer, and how it would mean he’s away for a year, finishing with, ”I’m sorry, pup. I know you were looking forwards to me being home. If you don’t want me to go, I won’t.”

Stiles is sitting there, slack jawed, staring at him. Peter waits for him to say something, but when Stiles remains silent, he drops his head in defeat. “You want me to say no.”

Stiles frowns. “What? Of course not. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, are you _insane?_ A year overseas? Who would turn that down?”

Peter can hear Stiles’s heartbeat, and it’s as steady as a drum. “You can’t want me to go. What about you?” he asks, because it can’t be this simple.

Stiles shrugs. “I’ll miss you, of course I will. But they asked _you_ , Peter. Out of all the students.  You _have_ to go - you’ll regret it if you don’t.” The hell of it is, he’s right.

“But, I’d be gone for a year,” Peter repeats. He’s spent so long preparing himself for the possibility that Stiles will hate the idea that his easy acceptance has thrown him completely.

Stiles bounces on the bed a little. “Peter, think about it from my perspective.  _It means there’s a chance I can come and see you in Australia._  Man, Scott’s gonna be so jealous!”

And, well. Peter hadn’t actually thought of that. “You’d want to come and visit me?”

“Uh huh. Whereabouts are you going? Are there beaches? Wait, are there spiders? _Snakes?_ ” Stiles shivers. “You’ll have to keep me safe from the poisonous stuff. Are Drop Bears real? Can I touch a kangaroo? Can we see the opera house?”

“Um, I don’t think we’re going anywhere near Sydney,” Peter tells him numbly, as his brain scrambles to catch up. Stiles is grinning widely, and Peter’s finding it very off-putting. Peter catches him by the shoulders as he continues to bounce. “Stiles,” he says, and the seriousness in his tone actually makes Stiles sit still. “You don’t have to decide right now. I want you to really think about it. Forget about the holiday part of it, and think about how you’ll cope if I’m not here, if you can’t call me. What if there’s another Stumpy incident?” he asks, referring to the nickname Stiles has given his shortened finger.

Stiles deflates a little. “You want me to think about this like an adult, don’t you?” he sighs.

“I’d like you to try, yes.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Peter, I _am_ thinking this through like an ‘adult’.” Stiles makes air quotes. “I _know_ you’ll be gone for a year. I _know_ I’ll miss you. There’ll be days it’ll suck, probably. I mean, honestly? I’m not thrilled. But _you_ are. Your whole face lights up when you talk about it. You _want_ this. And if it’s going to make you that happy, do you really think I’d stop you going?”

Peter can’t help himself. “Are you sure you don’t need more time – ‘

“More time to think about whether I want to stop my soulmate from doing something that will make him happy, just because I might have a few lonely nights? Besides,” he adds, “It’s nice you’re asking me, but it’s really not my decision. It's up to you.”

What if you resent me for going?” Peter challenges.

“What if in ten years’ time you resent me because you didn’t?” Stiles retorts.

“I wouldn’t resent you,” Peter protests, but a tiny part of his brain whispers _you might,_ and Stiles, perceptive little shit that he is, must see it flash across Peter’s features.

 Peter expects Stiles to call him on it, but he doesn’t. He simply says, “I want you to go, Peter. This is a big deal for you. You should go for it.” His heartbeat’s steady, and Peter knows he absolutely does mean it.

“You know I’ll miss you if I go,“ Peter offers.

“When you go, you mean. And you can just send me lots of presents. And a plane ticket,” Stiles adds with a wry grin.

Peter shakes his head. “You’re really sure you’ll be all right without me, pup?”

Stiles shoves at Peter gently. “I’ll miss you.  I’ll probably cry when you leave. But I’ve coped so far, haven’t I? Take the job, Peter.”

Peter holds Stiles close for a long time, and wonders how the hell he got so lucky.

 

* * *

 

 Peter calls the next day and accepts the offer. His parents are thrilled for him, and there’s a flurry of emails and phone calls as the logistics are worked out. Peter will be traveling with his professor and her Alpha husband, so he’ll have enough pack contact to keep his wolf under control – it’s not _his_ pack, but it’s _a_ pack, and that’s all he needs, really.

Stiles watches it all quietly, and John watches Stiles. Finally, he grabs Stiles one afternoon when he’s looking particularly glum and urges him out to the workshop under the pretense of needing an extra pair of hands. When they get out there though, John drops the act and just pulls Stiles against his chest and holds him there tightly. It’s only a matter of moments before he hears a hitched sob, then another. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs his hand up and down Stiles’s back, broad and comforting. Stiles doesn’t really cry, just takes one great, shuddering breath after another, and when his breathing steadies, John sighs out, “Ah hell, kid. Are you really gonna be okay if he goes? Do we need to put a stop this now?” Because John's quietly determined that he will, if it comes down to it.

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s fine. Peter deserves to go. It’s just….I’ve been waiting for him to be come home, and now he’s leaving me all over again.” He sniffles against John’s shirt, and John curses Peter Hale and his giant damned intellect all to hell for upsetting his boy.  Stiles continues, “I’m happy for him, but it still sucks. But I want him to have this, even if it hurts.” John makes soothing noises as he strokes Stiles’s back and tries to think of something, anything, he can possibly say to make this better. Before he can utter a word though, Stiles pulls away and smiles a watery smile at him. “It’s fine, I just needed to get it out of my system. Thanks for listening, pops. I don’t want to spoil this for Peter though, so promise you won’t say anything?”

“Not a word,“ John agrees, and wonders if Peter truly appreciates how amazing his soulmate is. They spend the rest of the afternoon playing pool on the table that mysteriously appeared in the workshop a couple of years ago, at about the same time as the tv and the microwave, and by the time they make their way inside Stiles is laughing and chattering, all signs of his earlier distress gone. He makes suitably impressed noises with Peter over the photos he’s received of some of the places he’ll be going, and talks about how exciting it will be, and John watches on, shaking his head to himself.

Ruth sidles over to him at one stage. “Had a meltdown?” she mutters out the side of her mouth.

“Mmhm,” John replies quietly. ”Better now.”

“You should be proud of your boy, John,” she says lowly. “He’s handling this so well.”

“Yeah. He’s a tough cookie. Raised by wolves.”

Ruth snorts out a laugh, and Peter and Stiles both look over at them curiously, before going back to what they were doing.

 

* * *

 

 

There are still four months till Peter leaves, and he determines to spend as much time with Stiles as he can. But he’s more than a little surprised to find that Stiles actually has a dizzyingly busy social calendar. He’s gained something of a reputation as a badass, between his dad being the sheriff, having an older werewolf as a soulmate, cutting a chunk off his finger, and actually living with a pack.

Peter can’t find him at all one afternoon, and ends up asking his father. “Do you know where Stiles is?”

Tom shrugs. “Last I heard, he was going bowling with Scott.”

Peter frowns, feeling a little put out that he hadn’t been told. Tom catches the look and raises an eyebrow at him. “Why the face, son?”

“I just thought he’d let me know where he went, that’s all.”

“Uh huh. And did you tell him where _you_ went when you disappeared all afternoon with that preacher’s boy last weekend?” 

“That’s different,” Peter grumbles. Tom fixes him with an unimpressed stare, and Peter wilts under it. “I thought Stiles would want to spend more time with me,” he complains.

Tom looks at Peter consideringly. “Tell me son, what do you think Stiles has been doing while you were away? Do you think he sat here with his face pressed against the window waiting for you?”  Peter starts to protest, but Tom continues, ”Stiles has spent three years without you here, and he’s built a life for himself. He has friends who have been here for him while you were away. You can’t expect him to just drop them because you’re home for a few months.”

Peter goes quiet as it hits him. “He really will be okay, won't he?”

Tom pulls his son into a half hug. “Yep. He'll miss you like all hell, of course he will. As it is, you should see him when he’s waiting for you to come home, he practically bounces off the walls and drives us all crazy, opening the front door every five minutes to check if you’re here. But his life doesn’t stop just because you’re back, and it’s not fair of you to expect that, not when you're leaving again so soon.”

Peter will deny till his dying day the wave of jealousy that sweeps over him at the thought of Stiles choosing his friends first, but Tom picks up on it anyway. “None of that, son,” he growls, giving Peter a shake. “You don’t get to mope around and get jealous of Stiles having a social life. If you want to be part of it, you talk to him, arrange for some alone time.”

“Assuming he _has_ time for me,” Peter mutters.

Tom shakes him again, a little harder. “I thought you were meant to be smart, son? Of course he’ll have time for you. But he doesn’t want to look like a clingy kid, so he’s waiting on you. Trust me, nothing will make that boy happier than if you court him a little.”

Peter leans into his father’s grip, and tilts his head back instinctively, drawing comfort from the closeness of his Alpha, feeling his annoyance melt away as Tom leans in and scents him deeply.  As he closes his eyes, he thinks hard about what his father’s said.

 

* * *

 

 

He ends up texting Stiles half an hour later, after waffling back and forth over the message. **_Where are you?_** sounds too demanding, and so does _**I was looking for you**. _ In the end he settles on **_Home soon? I miss you, pup_** and hits send before he can think too hard about it. He feels wrong-footed, and he freely admits it’s ridiculous to feel put out by Stiles having a life outside of him, yet here he is, watching his phone impatiently for a response.

It’s only a minute or so before he gets back **_Scott’s mom is driving us home now, miss you too._** It shouldn’t make him grin as widely as it does. He sits on the porch swing waiting, and when Melissa pulls up Stiles spills out of her car and runs up the steps towards him, throwing himself into Peter’s lap, all sprawling limbs and long arms and wide smiles. Peter raises a hand in greeting at Melissa, who waves back as she pulls away, and Peter’s quietly glad that apparently Scott’s not staying. He feels his wolf settle, and revels in that inherent sense of wellbeing he always gets from having Stiles close. Stiles obviously feels the same, because he mumbles “Needed this,” as he buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck. Peter couldn’t agree more, and they spend a long time just sitting there, swinging gently and soaking in each other’s presence. Eventually, Peter asks quietly, “How was bowling?”

Stiles lifts his head long enough to pull a face. “Not great. Scott brought a _girl_.”

“Oh?” Peter arches a brow. “What’s wrong with that?” As far as he knows Stiles has never been one to exclude anyone based on gender.

Stiles frowns, and Peter notices the way his shoulders slump a little and his scent sours with something that might be jealousy. “It’s not that she’s a girl, Kira’s nice.” He bites his lip, and Peter waits for him to go on. Finally Stiles blurts out,” They’re going out on Saturday. Scott’s dating. _Scott_.”

Peter laughs, surprised. “Really? Wonders will never cease.”

Stiles sighs. “It’s not fair. We never got to date or anything like that. Sometimes…” his voice drops to a whisper. but it doesn’t make what he says next sting any less. “Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t met you yet.”

Peter pulls back, shocked. “What?”

Stiles absolutely reeks of misery now. “I just mean, you’ve spent years with a kid hanging off you, and I’ve spent years waiting to be old enough for you, and I feel like I’ll never catch up, you know? But like, if we met _now,_ you’d ask me out and it would be cool. It just seems like we’ve wasted a lot of time waiting.”

Peter puts a hand gently under Stiles’s chin and lifts it so he’s looking Stiles in the eye. “Sweetheart, I don’t consider a single second I’ve spent with you  wasted, not one, you hear? We met when we were meant to. You can’t tell me you’re sorry, not really?”

Stiles snuggles close again, and doesn’t answer immediately. Finally he sighs out, “I guess not. With Mom and all, I don’t know what we would have done without the pack. I just feel like you’re stuck with me, sometimes. Like we both got robbed of doing normal things.”

Peter drops a kiss on Stiles’s temple. “I’m not stuck with you, baby. I’m lucky to have you, and don’t you ever think otherwise.” He continues to hold Stiles, the swing rocking back and forth gently, and slowly Stiles starts to smell like his normal, contented self. His scent turns pleased when Peter asks, “Are you going to have any time for me, pup, with your wild social life? I’m a little jealous of all your friends. My wolf wants to wrap you up and keep you close.”

Stiles lifts his head and grins. “I guess I could squeeze you in, since you asked.”

“Excellent,” Peter declares. “I want to spend as much time with you as I can before I head off to Australia.”

Stiles merely hums in response, having turtled back into Peter’s shoulder, and as they rock, Peter starts to plan.

 

* * *

 

 

The next afternoon, Stiles is out the back playing with Scar when Ruth summons him. “Stiles!” She calls. “Come inside!” He heads in with the dog at his heels, to find Ruth grinning suspiciously widely. “Go upstairs and put on a shirt without dirt and drool on it,” she tells him in an undertone. “You have a gentleman caller.”

Stiles’s brain stutters at that. “I – a what?”

“A gentlemen caller,” she repeats, grasping him by the shoulder and steering him up the stairs. “Now hurry up.”

Stiles is completely flummoxed – he has no idea what’s going on. He quickly changes his clothes, his mind whirring as to what could possibly be happening. Is this a joke? He doesn’t think so, because Ruth would never make fun of him like that, but he can’t think what this could be. He clatters down the stairs at speed, to be met with the sight of a grinning Ruth, a stern faced sheriff, and….

Peter.

He’s dressed impeccably, his hair’s perfect, and he has flowers and chocolates, which he holds out to Stiles.

“Hello, Stiles,” Peter greets him. “I’ve come to court you. If that’s all right with your father of course,” he adds, turning his gaze on John. “I’d like permission to date your son, sir,” he asks, almost formally.

Stiles’s breath catches in his throat, and he’s overwhelmed by a wave of happiness. Peter’s… _courting him._ He’s come to take him out, just like other couples. Considering they live together, it’s the stupidest thing Stiles has ever heard of, and he absolutely loves it. He turns his attention to the conversation that’s taking place between his father and his soulmate. John’s expression is serious, but Stiles can see the tiny quirk at the corner of John’s lip that means he’s struggling to keep a straight face. “I dunno son, Stiles is only thirteen, that’s awfully young to date,” he’s saying.

“Thirteen and a half,” Stiles interrupts, because he can’t help himself.

“I know it’s young, sir, but I’m leaving the country soon. Maybe you can make an exception. We _are_ soulmates,” Peter adds, holding out his wrist as if John hasn’t seen the writing on there a hundred times before as they do the dishes together.

“Hmm. You make a good point. I guess I’ll allow it. But only because I happen to know you come from a good family.”

Stiles’s grin widens at the ridiculous charade playing out in front of him. Ruth elbows John in the side sharply. “He’s from an excellent family, John.”

“An excellent family,” John amends obediently, and he can’t hold back his own grin any longer, although he tries his best to look serious when he tells Peter, “You treat my son right, you hear? If I hear otherwise, I’ll come after your hide.”

“Of course, Sheriff,” Peter replies, smoothly, and extends an arm towards Stiles. “What do you say, pup? Come on a date with me?”

“Yes please,” Stiles breathes out, and why can’t he stop grinning like a fool? He feels like a character in some old romance, being swept off his feet by a mysterious but handsome stranger. He revels in it, stepping forwards and taking Peter’s arm. “Where are we going? Do I need to change?”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s a surprise, and you’re perfect.”

As Stiles hands off the chocolates and flowers to Ruth and as they head out the door, John calls out,”Home by ten, you hear Stiles? And don’t you take advantage of that nice Hale boy.”

“No, dad,” Stiles calls out instinctively, before his brain catches up to what his father actually said. When it registers, it’s too late for him to protest because the door’s already closed, and it’s just him and Peter, going on a real date. Stiles turns to Peter and throws his arms around his neck, holding him tight. “Thank you for doing this,” he whispers against Peter’s neck. “It’s so dumb, I mean we live in the _same house_ , but thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome, pup.  You were right. Why should we miss out on the fun stuff? We can have our first date together.” It takes a moment for Peter’s words to sink in, but when they do, Stiles pulls away and looks at him, surprised.

“You’ve never dated?”

Peter shakes his head. “I was an arrogant little shit at sixteen, thought it was all beneath me. And then, well, you happened. So this is a first for me, too.”

Stiles smiles widely at that. “I get to be your first date,” he says, and he can’t help the surge of satisfaction that washes over him.

“And I get to be yours,” Peter replies, his smile warm and genuine.

“So tell me, nice Hale boy, where are you taking me?” Stiles asks, teasing.

“It’s a surprise. But don’t worry, we’ll be home by ten, your father has a shotgun,” Peter replies, completely straight-faced.

Stiles snorts. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m _your_ idiot,” Peter counters, running a thumb over where his name’s engraved on Stiles’s wrist.  Right then, Stiles has never been happier that Peter’s his idiot.

 

* * *

 

 

They drive forty minutes to the next town over, and Peter takes him to an old fashioned carnival.  They ride the Ferris wheel together, and the bumper cars, eat corn dogs and cotton candy, and play all the games. Stiles is surprisingly good at the shooting gallery, having spent a fair amount of time on the range with both John and Tom, and he’s absolutely beaming when he wins a plush wolf toy, presenting it to Peter with a flourish. “Beat that,” he challenges.

Peter raises an eyebrow at that. “Oh, I will pup. I’ll win you the biggest thing here.” He wanders around for a few minutes before settling on one of the bowling games where the aim is to knock over all the pins. It’s probably _technically_ cheating to use his Were strength to topple the pins that have been secured in place and are never meant to fall in order win the biggest bear there, but Peter just shrugs when the man running the stall grumbles at him. “You cheated first,” he points out, scooping up the stupidly large toy and walking away while Stiles follows him, giggling.

They share an ice cream cone, and Stiles is blissfully happy. He’s on a date, with his soulmate, and it _means_ something, being able to say they’re dating. He can’t explain it exactly, but it cements something between them. Peter wants him, wants to spend alone time with him outside of their day to day routine. He feels like it’s Peter acknowledging that Stiles isn’t just a little kid hanging off his shirt tails anymore. he leans in and pecks Peter on the cheek with ice-cream cold lips, and Peter turns and smiles at him. “Having a good time, pup?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles nods. “It’s perfect.”

“So does that mean I’ll get a second date?” Peter nudges his shoulder affectionately.

Stiles pretends to consider it. “Ask me nicely, and we’ll see.”

“Brat,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles just laughs.

* * *

 

 

They arrive home at three minutes to ten, and Peter walks him to the door, making Stiles roll his eyes. “What, are you just gonna stand outside and then come in in five minutes?”

“Absolutely,” Peter tells him cheerfully. “Just go with it, okay? I have to walk you to the door, that’s how this goes.”

“Why can’t you just come in with me?” Stiles is grinning at the foolishness of his mate.

“Because then I don’t get to do this,” Peter replies, as they reach the door. He leans in and kisses Stiles on the lips, the barest brush of another mouth against his. Stiles stills, shocked by the contact - they’ve never kissed on the mouth before. Peter gazes at him, searching his face for something, and he must find what he’s looking for, because he leans in and kisses Stiles again, a little more firmly this time, his breath warm, the kiss soft. It lasts mere seconds, although to Stiles it feels like it goes on forever, and the plushness of Peter’s lips against his is heavenly. He can feel the blood surging to his face, and to other places. When Peter pulls away, Stiles leans forwards, unconsciously chasing more, but Peter shakes his head. “Best not, pup,” he says, sounding a little regretful, and Stiles wants to whine at the loss of his new favorite thing. “Have a good evening, Stiles,” Peter says softly, opening the door for him.

Stiles half walks, half stumbles inside. He’s a mess of emotions and euphoria, totally flustered from a simple kiss. Ruth must hear him come in, because she appears a moment later. “How was your date, sweetheart?” she asks. Stiles just gives a happy sigh and a wave as he wanders up to his room, where he locks the door and spends the next ten minutes lazily stroking his dick, thinking about the way Peter’s lips felt on his, the sensation of Peter’s warm breath against his ear as he whispered good night. When it gets too much for him, he bolts into the shower, and he’s in there for a long, long time.

Afterwards he crawls into bed, dragging the stupidly big bear with him. Before he falls asleep he sends a text to Scott saying _Guess who’s dating now? Hint -it’s me._ Because some things have to be shared with best friends immediately, no matter how late it is.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are cute dates, overseas travel, hangovers, and hormones. It's a wild ride all round.

 

 

For the next three months, twice a week like clockwork, Peter takes Stiles out on a date. They go to the movies. They go out for burgers. When it’s Halloween, they go out collecting pumpkins. Stiles is edging on too old to go trick or treating, so Ruth declares that they’re in charge of handing out the candy for the holiday. Stiles wants them to be Batman and Robin, but they can’t agree who should be who, so they end up flipping a coin. Stiles thinks Peter looks amazing in tights, and he tells him so with a swirl of his cloak. Peter rolls his eyes and ignores his mother’s snickering.

They go bowling with Scott and Kira, just the once.  Peter wipes the floor with the rest of them, bowling a perfect 300. Stiles is awestruck, but Scott sulks a little, and grumbles quietly to Stiles, ”He could have let me win, so I looked good for my girlfriend.”

“But this way, Scott _,_ I look good for _my_ boyfriend,” Peter says in Scott’s ear. Scott leaps about a foot in the air because Peter snuck up on him, and Stiles hoots with laughter. Even Kira giggles. After that, they don’t go on any more double dates.

Every time they go home, Peter parks the car, walks Stiles to the door, and gives him a good night kiss. Just that, nothing more. Sometimes Stiles will try and wraps his arms around Peter’s neck in an effort to coax him into something further, but Peter’s reply is always the same - “Best not, pup.”

And Stiles gets it, he does. He’s not fourteen yet. Peter’s twenty-three. He knows Peter’s probably not attracted to Stiles that way, and the kiss is just to keep him happy. But that doesn’t mean Stiles doesn’t want Peter, and it doesn’t stop him trying to grind against him, doesn’t stop him whining, “Please, Peter? Just a little?”

Peter will place his hands on Peter’s hips and hold him still, a smile quirking his lips as he gently reminds Stiles, ”Consent goes both ways, sweetheart. And it’s still no.” And then he’ll open the door and usher Stiles inside.

Stiles is frustrated to say the least, but he sees Peter’s point. He contents himself with jerking off in the shower, and fantasises about the day when Peter won’t say “Best not.”

 

* * *

 

Peter loves taking Stiles out on dates. One thing that’s never changed in all the time they’ve known each other is his appreciation for Stiles’ sharp mind, and he genuinely enjoys spending time with him. He’s starting to feel a pull towards him physically, beyond the normal desire to be close to his soulmate, but it’s not strong enough for him to want to do anything about it – his awareness of Stiles’s young age still overrides any other feelings he may have. He thinks that Stiles must understand, because he doesn't push it.

Peter’s leaving soon, and the preparations are taking up a good chunk of his time. His professor and her husband come and meet with his family, Tom officially cementing a pack affiliation between them so that Peter is under the protection and authority of the other Alpha, Dale, when they travel. His wife, Julie, assures Tom that Peter will be in good hands. Stiles, of course, takes the opportunity to find out all he can about the upcoming trip, working his way around to the question he most wants answered – “So, will I be able to come and visit?”

Julie has been completely charmed by Stiles from the start, and she smiles at him as she nods. “We have a flexible schedule. Whenever you decide to come visit, we’ll make sure Peter has time off.” She turns to Tom and asks, “Who will be bringing Stiles? I assume he’s not traveling alone?”

John raises a hand. “I’ll bring him. I’m overdue a decent vacation. We’re thinking April for his birthday?”

“Good choice,” Dale agrees. “It’ll be past the worst of the heat, but still beach weather.”

Stiles frowns for a moment, before his expression clears. “Oh right, the seasons are backwards over there!” He sighs happily. “I can’t believe I’m going overseas. I’ll get to see a koala! And you,” he adds belatedly when he sees Peters unimpressed expression.

“I’ll miss you too, pup,” Peter comments drily.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You know I’ll miss you, idiot. But I mean, Australia _and_ you! It’s exciting, okay?”

They hash out the details of the travel a little more before Dale and Julie leave, and Tom gives an approving nod as they drive away. “They’re a good Pack, son, They’ll take good care of you.”

At his Alpha’s approval, Peter’s wolf settles. He leans into Tom’s side, enjoying the warmth and bulk of his father against him. They stand like that for long minutes, until Tom ruffles his son’s hair and tells him,” I’m proud of you, son. This is a great opportunity for you, and I know you'll do me proud.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Peter might be twenty-three, but he’s not too old to bask in the praise of his father.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s mid-November and Peter and Stiles are out for a lunch date. They’ve nearly finished their meal when Chris Argent walks in. Peter sees Chris glance over, and their eyes lock for just a moment. Stiles sees Chris too, and Peter notes the way Stiles looks away and stares fixedly at his plate. Peter intends to just ignore Chris unless he approaches them, but it doesn’t come to that.

Instead, the waitress comes over bearing two plates. “The gentleman over there sent you dessert. He said to tell you two, enjoy your date.” Stiles looks over at Chris, surprised. Chris tips his hat at him and then gives Peter a small nod. Peter hasn’t sought out Chris’s company since he and Stiles started dating – it sat wrong in his gut, felt like cheating, and Chris has obviously reached the same conclusion. Peter nods back at Chris, and that’s that.

They're done.

Peter snorts when he looks at the plate. “What’s funny?” Stiles demands. “Why are you laughing at dessert?” He eyes the cherry pie suspiciously. Peter doesn’t answer, just grins as he takes a bite. When they go to pay, they find that Chris has already picked up the check.

“I guess that means you’re all mine, now,” Stiles observes, a little smugly.

Peter bumps shoulders with him affectionately. “I always was, pup.”   

 

* * *

 

Peter gets a new set of luggage for Christmas from his parents, and a decent camera from John. Stiles gets a new laptop with a good camera so that he and Peter can Skype. Stiles gives Peter a dozen parcels, eyes dancing with mischief. When Peter opens them, he finds a series of increasingly hideous Hawaiian shirts. They’re eye-wateringly horrible, in neon greens, hot oranges, and searingly bright yellows, in tie die patterns and loud, obnoxious prints.  After he’s opened the last one, he turns to Stiles. “These are… really different, pup,” he manages.

“They awful, aren’t they?” Stiles agrees. Peter remains silent because they _are_ , and he doesn’t know what Stiles was thinking. It becomes clear though, when Stiles laughs and tells him, “You’re going to a country full of beautiful people. I wanted to make sure none of them tried to get their hands on you, so I’m dressing you ugly.”

Peter’s quietly pleased at the admission of possessiveness, while being slightly insulted at the implication that he’d ever take anyone up on such an offer. “I don’t need ugly shirts, pup,” he assures Stiles. “I have this.” He holds out his wrist with the name there.

“Still,” Stiles insists. “You can’t be too careful.” He taps the side of his nose knowingly. “ _Australians_.”

* * *

 

 

Stiles leans against the doorframe and watches Peter pack and repack, trying to get everything he’ll need for a year into three suitcases. Tomorrow Dale and Julie will collect Peter and get on a plane, and nineteen hours later he’ll land in Sydney. Stiles is absolutely not ready for it. He thought he would be, but it’s all come around too fast. He reminds himself that he’s coped so far, and tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Peter’s muttering lists under his breath, and Stiles can read the tension in his body language – at least he’s not the only one who’s nervous.  He steps forward into the room with a “Hey,” and Peter’s head snaps up.

“Hey, pup. Want to help me pack?”

“Not really. I‘ve changed my mind. You have to stay here,” Stiles tells him, only half joking.

Peter throws his arms in the air. “Perfect, because I can’t fit everything in this damned case. I’ll cancel my plans immediately.” Stiles can tell Peter’s only half joking as well. He knows that if he pushed the point, Peter would stay. But he doesn’t want that, not really. Maybe only a tiny bit.

So he reaches out and grabs Peter’s outstretched hands in his, intertwining their fingers and bringing Peter close. He tilts his head to the side in invitation, and Peter buries his face there. They stay that way, Peter drawing in great lungsful of his scent, the tension leaving him at the closeness of his soulmate. When Stiles can feel that Peter’s relaxed, he makes a considering hum. “Maybe you should go after all. I mean, I’m getting a holiday out of it. And Mama Ruth will spoil me when you’re gone, and I don’t want to miss out on that.”

Peter sighs. “I want to go, but I don’t want to _go_ ,” he admits, and Stiles knows exactly what he means.

“You’ll love it. I mean, they’re _paying_ you to travel, Peter. And they’re a nice couple. And I’ll be there in April for two whole weeks, so you can get your wolfy nose all over me then. It’ll be fine.”

Peter lifts his head and rubs his scruff up Stiles’s neck. “I know. It’s just…”

Stiles puts a hand under Peter’s chin and drags his head up so he’s facing him. “ _I’ll_ be fine,” he clarifies. “Stop panicking, and pack. The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can go on our date.”

Peter’s taking Stiles out for one last time this afternoon, before a family dinner.  Stiles doesn’t know where they’re going, doesn’t care. If he’s honest, he’d be happy to spend the afternoon like this, soaking up the closeness. But he knows Peter’s planned something, so he’ll go along with it. He gives Peter a gentle shove. “Go on, you pack and I’ll change.”  Peter calls Stiles a pushy brat, but he’s smiling as he says it, and he manages to get everything in his case. Stiles is ready for him, wrapped in layers against the chill in the air, and also because Peter told him to dress warmly. Peter grabs his keys and his jacket, and they head out. Peter drives then to the skating rink, and Stiles grins leaning over and pecking Peter on the cheek. “Yesss! I love this place!”

“I know, pup, that’s why we’re here.”

Stiles pulls Peter to the entry gate and inside, impatient to start skating. He loves the feel of the blades cutting into the ice, the crisp precision of gliding forwards and leaving that trail of shaved ice behind, a reminder of where he’s been. Also, he’s pretty good at it, surprisingly. He pulls his hire skates on and drags Peter onto the ice, holding his hand firmly. Music plays in the background, and Stiles lets himself bask in Peter’s nearness as they skate in circles and loops, covering the ice and laughing together when one or the other of them takes a tumble. It’s the perfect antidote to their shared sadness at the thought of parting for a year.

By the end of two hours’ skating, Stiles is shivering and complaining that his legs hurt, so they return their skates and drive home. When they get there, Peter walks Stiles to the door and gives him a kiss, but this time he takes his hand and leads him inside and up to his room. “What are we doing?” Stiles asks, looking hopeful.

Peter closes the door and strips off his jacket, then does the same with Stiles’s. “I thought you might be cold. I could warm you up,” he says, grinning and opening his arms wide.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Wait, did you take me skating just to get me cold, so you’d have an excuse to snuggle?”

Peter lays down on the bed and pats the space next to him. “I certainly did. Now get over here, pup. I need enough hugs to last me for four months.” Stiles dives at the bed, landing on top of Peter and pinning him down. “Idiot. I would have hugged you anyway.” Stiles takes one ice cold hand and places it on the back of Peter’s neck, earning him an indignant squawk. He presses it there more firmly. “Mmmmm, you really are nice and warm. Where shall I put my other hand?” He slips it under the hem of Peter’s shirt and lays it against his belly, grinning triumphantly as Peter hisses at the contact and flails about.

“You’re a terrible person. I won’t miss you at all,” Peter sniffs.

“Uh huh.” Stiles removes his cold hands, and curls up next to Peter properly, because he really is warm, like Stiles’s personal heater. Stiles sighs contentedly, before saying, “Don’t let me fall asleep, okay? I don’t want to miss this.”

“I won’t, sweetheart,” Peter assures him. He keeps his word, too. Every time Stiles starts to doze, Peter will run a finger down his cheek, or flick his ear softly, or ask him something, just enough to keep him awake and aware. It’s a good system, and it works right until Peter dozes off as well. They only wake when Ruth comes up to tell them its time for dinner, and finds them curled into each other, fingers intertwined.

 

* * *

 

Stiles refuses to cry. He watches as Peter packs his suitcases into the car, watches as Tom scents him one last time, watches as Peter gets slobbered on by Scar, and keeps his tears back through sheer force of will. When Peter pulls him close and hugs him, murmuring, “I’ll miss you, pup,” though? All bets are off. He starts to sob, great messy wet things, soaking the front of Peter’s shirt, his whole body shaking. Peter just holds him, hand smoothing down his back as he rocks Stiles gently through it. Finally, Stiles lifts his head. “I wasn’t going to do this,” he says, voice hoarse from crying.

“I know - I said the same thing,” Peter tells him, and that’s when Stiles notices that Peter’s eyes are red as well. Peter smiles at him and shrugs. We’re both hopeless.”

Stiles nods shakily. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay, I promise. Just, don’t get bitten by anything poisonous or eaten by a shark, okay?”

Peter laughs a little wetly. “I promise. And I’ll skype you whenever I can.” They both know that some of the remote areas Peter’s going to won’t have internet access – some of then barely have running water and electricity.

Stiles takes a deep breath, and then hugs Peter hard. “Go on then, Adventurewolf. Before I cry again.” He lets Peter go and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and John wraps an arm around his shoulders.

Peter leaves, and Stiles watches him go. Again.

“God, I feel like I spend my life watching him leave,” he sighs.

John pulls him closer. “Maybe. But he always comes back.” Stiles leans into his dads’ touch for a little longer, and then lets himself be distracted by the cake Ruth’s made for him. Four months isn’t _that_ long.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter _hates_ Australia. He hates everything about it. He hates it when they disembark the plane and walk into a wall of searing heat, he hates the strange accents and far too cheerful demeanour of the people, he hates the phrase “ _no worries, mate_ ,” within half an hour of entering the country, and he thinks that he’s possibly made the worst decision of his life. His wolf whines unhappily, and Peter’s inclined to agree with his wolf.

Of course, his opinion could be slightly coloured by the fact that he’s been awake for 30 hours, unable to sleep on the plane, and is currently in a customs line that’s crawling along interminably slowly. They’re nearly at the front of the line, and the lady in front of them is arguing that no, the dried beef strips she has in her bag aren’t a prohibited item because they’re _organic,_ and Peter can feel his fangs itching to drop with sheer frustration. He briefly considers leaning over, grabbing the offending item and just eating it, but the next thing there’s a solid hand on the back of his neck and Dales’ voice in his ear. “Put the wolf away, son. I know you’re tired, but get control.”

Peter glances down and sees that his claws have started to come out, and when did that happen? He takes a deep breath, holds it for four beats before releasing it, and closes his eyes until he feels more like himself. “Good. I swear, customs has the same effect on me,” Dale says, releasing his grip on Peter’s neck slightly.

“Really?” Peter slurs a little – he’s been awake for far too long.

“Really. There’s always some dumbass who thinks the rules don’t apply to them, slows everything down for the rest of us.” Dale nods at the woman, who’s still arguing even as her precious biltong is taken away from her. Peter leans back into the warm touch, closing his eyes and drawing comfort from it.

“Next!”

Peter’s eyes snap open and he realizes the customs officer is waiting for him.

“Sorry, yeah,” he wheels the baggage trolley forward, half expecting the man to ask to search his bags, since he dropped his claws. But the man just nods at him, asking, “Long day?”

“Uh huh.” Peter waits for the man to open his bags or question him, but he just waves him through. “You’re fine. Go on through. Welcome to Australia.”

And just like that, he’s done. He waits for Dale and Julie, but the man only gives their bags a cursory check as well, and then they’re free to go to their hotel. Dale makes a quick call to let Tom know they’ve arrived safely, and Peter slumps in relief. He follows along blindly as Dale arranges a taxi to take them to their hotel. He has his own room, more of an apartment really, but he’s too tired to appreciate it. He gets inside the room and lays on the bed, just to catch his breath for a minute.

He’s asleep in minutes, fully clothed. He doesn’t hear Dale knocking on his door to ask if he wants dinner, and he doesn’t wake up for another ten hours.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s not sure whether it’s his bladder or his grumbling stomach that wakes him first, but either way, he can’t sleep any longer. There’s the slightest trace of daylight creeping in through the still opened blinds, and he surmises that it must be near morning. He drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom, still half asleep as he relieves himself.  He shakes his head to chase away the lingering sleep, and eyes up the shower. The thought of warm water washing away the accumulated scents of everyone he met on the flight’s too tempting to ignore. He strips out of his clothes and gets under the hot water, standing there for a long time and letting the stresses of the flight wash away from him. He remembers something Stiles told him, and he peers down at the drain.  He can’t help the chuckle that escapes him when he sees that yes, the water does indeed run down the drain counter clockwise.

He’s still smiling when he gets out of the shower and dries himself. He does a quick mental calculation, and sends a text to Stiles.

_You were right about the drains._

He doesn’t expect a reply, but his phone pings almost immediately.

**Told you. Skype me?**

Peter’s stomach gives a loud growl, and he regretfully sends a message saying

_Maybe later. I don’t have wifi yet._

**Okay. Miss you. Don’t get eaten by anything.**

Peter snorts at his phone, and goes to find breakfast.

 

* * *

 

 

Maybe, Peter concedes, his earlier judgement was a little harsh. Dale and Julie found him and took him to breakfast, and they’ve spent the day in a small charter boat, driving around the harbor, pulling into various little coves, stopping at bars (pubs, he reminds himself, they’re _pubs_ here), drinking beer, soaking up the sunshine and the sights and smells of Sydney. They’ve seen the Opera house, and the Bridge, and Dale tells him that tomorrow morning, they’re going to _climb the Bridge._ Peter didn’t even know such a thing was possible, but apparently there’s a tour company that does it. He can’t wait.

The locals are pleasant and friendly, although the accent throws him a little, as does some of the language. Someone asks him if he’s gotten himself some thongs yet, and Peter just stares at them, slightly confused as to why they’re asking such a personal question. Dale catches his expression and laughs, translating. “Flip flops, Peter. For the beach.” Apparently, thongs over here are footwear, not underwear. They’re also called ‘ _double pluggers_ ,’ which just has Peter shaking his head.

He tells Stiles about it early the next morning, having figured out the time zones and sorted out a sim card so he can call overseas. Stiles laughs himself stupid, and tells Peter he’d better start making a list of Australian slang for when Stiles gets there. “Although, I do like the thought of you in a thong,” he adds, still laughing.

The Bridge Climb is amazing. Peter, Dale and Julie lead their group by virtue of their Were strength, and when they get there, the view from the top is breathtaking. Peter takes plenty of photos, grinning from ear to ear as he does so.  Afterwards, they spend the day shopping for souvenirs and a few essentials – Dale buys Peter a pair of _thongs_ with the Australian flag emblazoned on them and thrusts them at him. “Gotta look like a local, _mate_ ,” he grins.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles can’t decide whether he loves or hates Skype. He likes being able to talk to Peter, of course he does. It’s the high point of his day. But it also makes him aware of his loss a little more keenly, being able to see him and but not _feel_ him seems wrong, somehow. But he hides it, puts on a brave face, and laughs along with the stories of impossibly hot weather and weird food and words that can’t really be English, can they?

He copes. Stiles can see that after a week, Peter’s already starting to get a tan, and his face is relaxed and happy. He shows up on camera with a bright red face and neck one day,  admitting that they spent the day at Bondi Beach, and he got caught up swimming and forgot to reapply his sunscreen. He tells Stiles that it’ll be better in an hour or so with his werewolf healing, but that it still smarts like hell. Stiles mocks him, but he secretly thinks that Peter looks kinda cute. He’s wearing one of Stiles’s hideous shirts, bright green against his red skin, and Stiles tells him he looks like a traffic light. They’re leaving Sydney the next day and heading to the Northern Territory, where they’ll start their research project. Peter’s excited, and Stiles smiles along and pretends he doesn’t mind that Peter will be out of contact for a while now.

He ends the call, closes the laptop, and sighs. He wanders downstairs to find Derek there. He and Derek have always gotten on, the older boy’s quiet nature a foil to Stiles’ chatter. Derek’s family live in one of the other houses on the Hale land, so it’s not uncommon for him or his sisters to drop by to visit their grandparents. He takes one look at Stiles’s face and opens his arms. Stiles accepts the hug gratefully, wondering vaguely what it’s like for people who don’t live with family that are happy to touch and hug the way pack are. He thinks it must be kinda sad for them. Derek squeezes him, and asks, “Uncle Peter?”

“Uncle Peter,” Stiles agrees into his chest. “I miss him, and it sucks.” Derek just runs a hand soothingly down his back without saying anything, and Stiles appreciates his taciturn nature right then, because the last thing he wants is someone giving him platitudes. Derek just hugs him, solid and silent, until Stiles pulls away with a quiet, “Thanks, Der.”

“Anytime,” Derek assures him, folding his arms across his chest. Derek’s starting to muscle up, has been working out with Tom at the gym, and Stiles has a brief moment of envy. He’ll never look like that, even if he did choose to work out. He’ll always be more Spiderman than Wolverine. He sighs to himself. Derek catches it, and raises an eyebrow.

Stiles pokes at Derek’s bicep. “I’m jealous of your guns. I bet you just lifted like, one weight and boom, they were there. _Werewolves,_ ” he mutters.

Derek throws back his head and laughs. “You’re an idiot, Stiles,” he says fondly. “I had to lift at least _five_ weights to get these.” He looks thoughtful for a second, before saying, “You wanna come along? You and Scott are starting Lacrosse, it probably wouldn’t hurt to get a little muscle on you, so you don’t snap like a twig the first time you get body checked.”

Stiles considers it, briefly. “Nah, I don’t think it would help. I’m just naturally scrawny.”

Derek shakes his head. “You are _now_. But we could change that. And it would give you something to do while you’re busy being mad at Peter for leaving.”

“I’m not mad,” he protests, but Derek’s eyebrows pull up into a disbelieving look. “Not mad _exactly_ ,” he amends. “Just lonely, and jealous of the fun he’s having.”

“Either way, come work out. Take it out on a punching bag when you’re missing him.”

And yeah, that does sound appealing, when Derek puts it like that. “I guess I could try.”

Derek claps him on the shoulder and grins, his bunny teeth peeking out. “We’ll go see Tom, get you a workout, and we’ll go five days a week.”

“Five days? That seems like a lot.”

Derek shrugs. “I figure you’ll miss Uncle Peter a lot. Besides,” he digs his fingers into Stiles’s ribs, tickling and making him squawk, “We have a lot of work to do before you go visit in April. We gotta get you ready to fight those Drop bears.”

Stiles grins at Derek. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Derek smiles happily, and then proceeds to pin Stiles down and tickle him until he’s begging for mercy, laughing and flushed and not even thinking about Peter.

 

* * *

 

 Stiles really does want Peter to have a good time overseas, but he still takes a dark sort of glee in Peter’s dishevelled appearance when Stiles calls him on the 27th of January and is greeted by a pale, shaking figure wearing sunglasses.

“Peter? Did something poisonous bite you? are you all right?” he asks, worried at first.

But then Peter puts his fingers to his lips, hands still trembling as he gets out “Shhhhh, pup. Not sick. Hangover.”

Stiles’s jaw drops. “Peter, werewolves don’t _get_ hangovers! “

Peter winces at his voice. “They do if they’re drinking home brewed wolfsbane rum shots.”

“Why were you even drinking? It’s a Wednesday!”

Peter lets out a low groan. “It was Australia Day, Stiles. “

“What's Australia Day? Is it like fourth of July?” Stiles envisions a few quiet beers and a barbecue, and doesn’t understand what Peter means.  
Peter shakes his head, and judging from his expression he immediately regrets it. “ _Nothing_ like fourth of July. You don’t know what they’re like, pup.  It’s terrifying. They start drinking early, and it’s hot, and at first it was fine, just beer, but then Davo brought out _the rum_.”

“The rum?” Stiles is grinning madly by now – he’s ever seen Peter like this.

“ _The rum_ ,” Peter confirms. “And it’s all _this’ll put hair on your chest_ , and _c’mon mate, have another one, don’t be pissweak,_ and suddenly you’ve had seventeen shots and you’re singing along to some band called Chisel about _The last Train out of Sydney_ , and screaming _Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi! Oi! Oi!,_ and the next thing you know you’re throwing up on a guy called Bruce and getting taken home in a wheelbarrow.”

Stiles laughs himself sick. In fact, he’s still laughing when Peter tells him he's heartless and hangs up on him in disgust.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles knew it was coming, but he’s still not ready when suddenly, in February, he gets hit with a wave of hormones as puberty kicks up into high gear. He doesn’t know how he’s going to feel from one day to the next, from one _hour_ to the next.  He swings between irritable and just plain miserable, at the mercy of the hormones surging through his body, and the emotions are so intense, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.  One day he’ll just want to cry under his covers, and the next he’ll just want to scream _all the damn time_. Stiles knows what’s going on, has been googling that shit ever since he found the first signs of his body changing, but it still shocks him, how needy and uncontrollable he is. Telling himself that it’s normal and will pass doesn’t make him feel any better.

Coupled with Peter’s absence, Stiles is miserable. His dad knows what’s going on, even without werewolf senses it’s pretty obvious, and he helps him through it. John will come home from work, take one look at his expression, and drag Stiles out to the workshop. If they never touch a piece of lumber and spend an hour of so with Stiles bitching and moaning and possibly crying on his dad until he feels better, nobody needs to know. Other days, mainly on the weekends, John will take him out shooting, telling him, “Get it out of your system son, and don’t stop firing till you feel better.” It helps.

The other thing that helps is working out. Tom’s designed a program for him, one that pushes his limits, and that Stiles suspects is designed to wear him out completely. He works off his frustrations boxing, with Derek holding the pads steady for him, never moving an inch as Stiles _hits and hits and hits_ , losing himself in the hypnotic rhythm of it, using all his force to drive his hands forwards, ‘til he’s dizzy and gasping for breath. Five days a week, he boxes, and lifts weights, and tries and fails to keep up with Derek on the rock-climbing wall, and at the end of it he’s sweaty and exhausted, but he feels more settled. He side eyes Derek one day from where he’s laying on a mat on the floor of the gym, recovering. “Der?”

“Hmmm?” Derek’s sitting next to him, legs out in front of him as he leans forwards and stretches, werewolf - graceful in a way that makes Stiles jealous.

“When you suggested this, working out, did you know I was about to…” he struggles to find the words, to express the insanity that his body’s inflicting on him.

Derek understands anyway. “I maybe guessed. And I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“Huh.” Stiles thinks about that for a minute. “Well, thanks. It’s good.“

“You’re welcome, Stiles.” Derek smiles, transforming his whole countenance. Derek’s resting bitch face is a source of endless amusement to Stiles, because he knows that behind it, Derek’s just as sweet as can be, but you’d never guess it. He seems more he’d yell at you for trespassing on property.

Tom hangs a punching bag in the workshop for Stiles and gives him a key, telling him he’s free to go out there as long as he doesn’t slice anything else off. Stiles appreciates the trust Tom’s shown him, and he doesn’t go near the power tools. But when he comes home from school feeling absolutely murderous for no reason he could even tell you, it’s a relief to be able to grab the gloves and head out to punch out his frustrations. When he’s finally worn himself out, he’ll go back inside and take a shower, jerking off while he’s there, because he can, and it feels so good, and if he doesn’t his constantly half-hard dick may possibly drive him insane. He finds a stiff breeze can have him hard, these days.

He’s hungry all the time. It’s partly because he’s working out, as well as going running with Scar and Derek every morning at Derek’s insistence, and partly because he’s growing like a weed. Ruth just shakes her head with an amused huff and makes sure to supply him with plenty of snacks, shoving a sandwich into his hand every time she sees him, or a chicken leg, or a plate of fruit, anything to fill what she affectionately calls his _hollow legs._

He gets taller, and his shirts all start to get tight across the shoulders as he gets broader, which he can live with, because his junk’s also grown, _a lot_ , and he thinks that makes up for a lot of the shit he’s going through right now. His voice betrays him, changing mid-sentence, unable to pick an octave and stick with it. He’s talking to Peter one day when it happens, and Stiles is mortified. He waits for Peter to say something, but after a moment’s pause in the conversation, Peter just smiles, and carries on telling him about the fact there were emus outside his window last night. Sometimes Stiles is grateful that Peter isn’t here to see this, because soulmate or not, it’s embarrassing.

At least he doesn’t have acne like Scott’s.  His best friend’s face is a mess right now, and he whines about it to Stiles constantly. Stiles feels sorry for him, honestly. And he thinks that Scott has it worse than him purely because his mom’s a nurse, and she sat Scott down one night and gave him The Talk, in excruciating detail. “It was awful, Stiles! She had _medical diagrams_ of a guy’s junk! She kept pointing to it and talking about it, asking me about nocturnal emissions. I swear I wanted to die!”

Stiles, on the other hand, having already had The Talk when he was younger because of Peter, just had Tom and John approach him separately and ask, “Anything you need to ask, son?”

He’d shaken his head, replying, “Internet,” and they’d nodded, and that had been the end of the conversation. But he knows that if he did have questions, either of them would be there for him in a second, and that comforts him more than he thought it would.

 

* * *

  

He’s ashamed to admit, he’s snapped at Peter more than once. He tries not to, honestly.  And most of the time, their calls are fine.  But every so often, he opens his mouth and his emotions take over. More than once he has to apologize before the end of their call, for snarky comments ranging from “ _It’s all right for you, off having fun_ ,” to “ _I bet you don’t even miss me, asshole._ ” Peter’s remarkably patient, and will always tell him it’s fine, he understands, Stiles is having a bad day. Then Peter will tell him he misses him more than he can say, and they’ll count down the days till they see each other again. Peter will always end the call with “Miss you, Pup,” and Stiles will blow a kiss at the screen before hanging up and going to hug his pillow.

There was one night where Stiles lost it completely, bursting into tears and yelling, “Why aren’t you _here_? Why am I doing this all alone?” despite the fact that the last thing he wanted was for Peter to see him like this.

Peter had rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Jesus, pup. I don’t know what you want me to say. Do you want me to come home? I can, if you really need it.”

Stiles had stared at the screen for a moment, still sniffling. He could see the sky in the shot behind Peter, startlingly blue and clear, and he knew that nearby there was a beach, because Peter was in a tiny coastal town somewhere that was all beach. Peter’s hair was sticking up in all directions, and he was shirtless, because he’d just been swimming. But he was offering to leave, if Stiles needed him. Just knowing that made him feel bad for losing his temper, but he also found it strangely comforting. Peter was still watching him, waiting for a reply, and Stiles found that as tempting as it was, he couldn’t do it. He’d let out a sigh that matched Peter’s. “It’s fine. I’m just having my daily meltdown. You don’t need to come home.”

Peter had squinted at him through the screen. “Are you sure? I can be there in,” Stiles could see him mentally calculating, “Three, maybe four days.”

Stiles shook his head. “By then, who knows what I’ll be feeling? I’m just a mess right now. And I’m coming to you in six weeks anyway. Hopefully I’ll be less of a human disaster by then, and you’ll want to see me.”

“You’re not a disaster, sweetheart. You’re… a work in progress,” Peter had told him gently. “And I’ll always want to see you.”

“Same. I just, I miss you so much sometimes. I’m sorry I yelled.”

“It’s fine, pup. Honestly? I was worse. Ask Dad, he’ll tell you I was an absolute nightmare at fourteen.”

“Really?”

“Really. I got taken to the office more than once for being rude to Mom.”

Stiles’ eyes had widened. Being rude to Mama Ruth was simply Not Done. “Wow. You must have been awful.”

“I was,” Peter confirmed. “But I survived it, and you will too, pup. I promise.”

Stiles had felt better by the end of the call, just knowing that if he really, really needed him to, Peter was willing to cut his trip short. But he’d also gone and sought Tom out, asking him to tell him stories of terrible teenage Peter, and Tom had been happy to oblige.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes some time, but he finds his emotions stop swinging so wildly. He learns the art of taking a deep breath rather than lashing out, and stops growling and snapping at everyone, much to his relief and theirs. He starts smiling again.

One day Derek walks over to him when he’s in the kitchen and picks him up, sitting him on the edge of the kitchen counter, observing him carefully. “You’ve got some guns, Stiles,” he says finally. “I think you could take on a Drop Bear, now.” Derek pokes a finger at Stiles’s bicep, and yes, there’s definitely some muscle there. Stiles preens a little under the praise, but the ego boost is short lived when Derek then throws him over his shoulder and carries him outside like a sack of potatoes, just because he knows Stiles likes it, needs the physical contact. They end up wrestling in the grass, and Stiles is absolutely no match for Derek, but it puts a smile on his face for the rest of the day.

By the time their holiday rolls around, he feels like reasonable human being again, although his voice is still a random beast at best, and his favourite place continues to be under the shower with his hand wrapped around his dick.

He thinks that possibly his dad’s more excited about the trip than he is, and when he thinks about it, he can see why. It’s been well over five years since John had a real holiday, let alone going overseas. They pore over pages on the internet, looking at the places they’ll be going, and making a note of things to ask Peter.

All too soon the day arrives, and Tom drives them to the airport after solemnly swearing to look after Scar, and walk him daily, _Yes Stiles, I promise_. Stiles has two massive suitcases – John tried to get him to pack less, only to be informed that one of the cases is half empty specifically to leave room for Stiles to bring back souvenirs. The bags come in under the weight limit easily, so John just goes with it.  After one last hug with Tom and a promise to travel safe, they check their bags, get their passports checked and stamped, and head through to the departure lounge, where it hits Stiles that this is really happening. He’s going to Australia.

As they board the plane, he can’t keep the grin off his face, and he bounces excitedly in his seat.

He’s going to see Peter.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, folks, is a Drop Bear. They're mythical, I promise...   
> 
> 
> And this? This is Chisel. It's as Australian as you can possibly get.   
> [Khe Sanh](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dTjvG4WJD_A)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Peter and Stiles, and the coast of Western Australia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I found this hard to write, but if it took me a little longer than normal, I'm sorry. Hopefully you still enjoy it!

 

 

Stiles is nothing but a bundle of nerves for the first hour of their flight, craning his neck to see out the window, fiddling with the air vents, turning the lights on and off while John just shakes his head, knowing that when Stiles is like this it’s best to just ride it out.  He’s right - eventually Stiles settles a little, putting his earbuds in and scrolling through the movie menu before settling on an action film. They could have gotten a cheaper flight, but John had been firm on two things – he’d pay for his own damn holiday thank you very much Tom, and they weren’t flying in some cheap-assed tin can – if he was going to be trapped in a confined space with a teenager for fifteen hours, John was going to have meals, movies, and extra leg room.

It’s a night flight, so John’s hoping they’ll both get some shuteye – in fact, he’s going to insist Stiles at least try, because he knows his kid, knows he’d stay awake watching movies the whole night if John let him.  He briefly considers allowing it, but then he thinks about disembarking and going through customs with a tired, rambling Stiles, and shudders inwardly. They’ll take one look at his kid and pull him aside for questioning, he’s sure of it.

He watches Stiles out of the corner of his eye, and once he sees that he’s happily watching the film, John finally allows himself to relax properly. When the flight attendant comes around with the drinks cart he gets a soda for Stiles and a cold beer for himself, sighing with pleasure at the first mouthful. He’s on holidays, and it’s been a hell of a long time since that happened. He smiles to himself. As much as he feels for Stiles with Peter being away, he’s glad it’s given them this chance to travel, to spend some one on one time with his boys. John wonders briefly when Peter became one of his boys, and decides it really doesn’t matter.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles makes it four hours into the flight before he can feel his eyelids drooping, and he must drop off because he jerks awake with a start when there’s an explosion on screen, and he has no idea what’s happening.  He sighs and slips his earbuds out. His dad nods at him. “Good nap, son?”

“Uh huh. ‘M tired.” He grabs the blanket that he stored at his feet, and the neck pillow, and curls up in his seat. He barely fits, but then John pushes a button that lifts the armrest between them, and after a quick glance to confirm that the seats behind them are empty, he reclines their seats as far as they can. “Slide across, kiddo,” he offers, lifting his arm so Stiles can rest his head on John’s chest. Stiles snuggles in, John drapes the blankets across them, flicks the light off, and they settle in. Stiles is asleep in minutes, and John’s not far behind. The flight attendant smiles at the sight of them cuddled up together, and when the blankets slide down because Stiles is squirming, she quietly pulls them back up.

It’s not quality sleep, both of them woken at various points by the noises of the other bodies around them, but it’s better than nothing, and when the lights are turned on and the captain’s wishing them a good morning, Stiles doesn’t feel nearly as bad as he’d feared. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and tries to slide across his dad to get to the bathroom without waking him. He doesn’t succeed of course, and John’s eyes snap open to instant alertness, the legacy of years of police work.  John just grunts and follows Stiles to the bathroom. Once they’re settled back in their seats, Stiles peers out the window to see daylight and he stares, transfixed by the way the light plays across the top of the cloud formations, making patterns and colors, and the way the clouds look solid from here.

He only pulls his face away when it’s time for breakfast, accepting the container of what’s apparently an omelette. He pokes at it, dubious, and hears his dad snort. “I know, right? Airline food’s a special kind of hell.”  Stiles eats it anyway, starving as always, and by using his best wide-eyed pleading look, he manages to scam an extra serving, some bread rolls, and a pudding cup from the attendant.

There are still a couple of hours left till they land, in Sydney. Stiles is on edge now, both excited and nervous about landing in a strange country. “You’ve got the tickets for the next flight, right?’ he asks John, yet again.

His father shows him the tickets, yet again. “Yes, I have them. And our passports. And Peter’s number. And Dale’s number. It’ll be fine.”

Stiles ducks his head. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but he’s paranoid that they’ll miss the connection and Peter will leave the airport without then. It’s stupid, he’s fully aware its’s stupid, but that doesn’t calm his overactive brain any. His dad seems to understand, because he leans over and runs his hand over Stiles’s new buzzcut. “We’re getting fast tracked off the flight, so we make our connection, and I guarantee you Peter will be waiting at the other end.”

At the thought of Peter waiting, Stiles relaxes. “Yeah, he will be, won’t he. I can’t wait to see him.”

“Oh really? I never would have guessed. You’ve hardly mentioned it at _all_ this last week,” John says, rolling his eyes. Stiles pokes his tongue out. It’s not his fault he was excited and has been babbling for days, okay? He spends the next couple of hours switching between half- watching a movie and peppering John with questions – do they really drive on the wrong side of the road? How hot will it be, really? Does he think Peter will like his haircut?

When it’s finally time to land, John hands him a stick of gum. “Chew this, it’ll stop your ears popping,” he instructs. Stiles takes the gun and starts chewing, and immediately feels the difference, the pressure in his ears easing as they descend. The landing’s smooth, and Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

As John promised, passengers on the connecting flight to Perth are allowed to exit the plane first, and Stiles takes a deep breath as he steps off the plane. It’s warm and balmy, and he lets himself have a moment of just _being in another country_ before he has to keep moving lest he hold up the queue behind him. “C’mon kid, “John mutters, nudging him along.

They enter the airport and Stiles cranes his neck, looking at everything around him, reading the signs advertising things he’s never heard of, hearing the strange, harsh twang of Australian accents, and the constraint refrain of _yeah, mate_. It’s fascinating and he loves it already. They make it through customs and out the other side, and he’s a little sad that he’s not even going to get to leave the airport, but time’s against them.

They just have time for John to get a decent coffee, grumbling the whole time about the dirt water they’d served on the plane. Stiles ducks into the bathrooms and changes into a clean t shirt – he wants to look good when Peter first sees him. They make it to departures with twenty minutes to spare, and Stiles spends that time mooching around a souvenir store, pouting when his dad won’t let him buy all the kitsch that he sees there. And then it’s onto the plane, and another five hours of flying. His dad reclines his seat telling him, “Coffee’s not working. I’m gonna nap now, son,” in a tone that suggests disturbing him would be a very bad idea, so Stiles is left to his own devices. Stiles is getting more antsy the closer to Perth they get. By the time the captain tells them they’re ten minutes from landing, he’s practically vibrating with anticipation.

He shakes his father awake. “We’re here! We’re here. Dad!”  He looks out the window, taking in the spread of the city beneath him, pointing excitedly. “Peter’s down there!” And maybe he’s imagining it, but it’s almost as though he can feel the pull of his soulmate, the closer they get. When they get the call to fasten their seatbelts for landing, Stiles feels like he might cry, he’s such a mess of nerves and happiness. He turns to his dad, suddenly worried. “What if he doesn’t like the haircut? What if he’s forgotten what I look like and he’s disappointed?”

John’s lips quirk up. “Kid, you were literally Skyping with him yesterday. He knows what you look like, and he’s seen your hair. And honestly? You could turn up painted green and he wouldn’t care. Now, chew your gum.”

Stiles sighs and does as he’s told. Once they’ve landed, it’s agony to wait the long minutes for the seatbelt sign to turn off, and as soon as it does Stiles is standing in his seat and trying to elbow his way into the aisle. John lays a hand on his arm, holding him back. “Doors aren’t open yet, Stiles.”

Stiles makes a frustrated sound, and his shoulders slump. But he’s so _close_ ,” he whines. I can feel him, I swear.”

The flight attendant takes notice. “Soulmate waiting?”

“Yeah. Kid’s champing at the bit, they’ve been apart for months,” John explains.

“Oh! Well in that case, follow me,” the young man says decisively. “Priority disembarking for soul mates.”  He leads Stiles by the hand to the front of the plane while Stiles beams, and John shakes his head fondly. When the doors open, Stiles is first off the flight, half running to the terminal. He knows vaguely that his dad’s following somewhere behind, but he doesn’t have it in him to look behind and find him.  He sees the escalator that leads downstairs to the arrivals lounge, and jumps on, face flushed from both heat and excitement.

He sees Peter standing at the bottom, scanning the crown of new arrivals for him, and he waves his arms wildly. “Peter! Peter, up here!” he shouts. Peter spots him and then he’s smiling and jostling his way forwards, so that when Stiles finally steps off the escalator Peter’s right there, pulling him into a crushing hug. As soon as they make contact the sensations of _rightmatehomegood_  slams into Stiles like a punch to the gut, and he closes his eyes and lets it wash over him.

“Oh, pup,” Peter breathes, and Stiles isn’t crying, he isn’t, his eyes are just watering because he’s tired, okay? Peter holds onto him like he never wants to let go, and Stiles tilts his head to the side to make room for Peter to scent him. Stiles would stay there forever, but there’s a tap on his shoulder, and he vaguely notes that the rest of the passengers are waiting for them to get out of the flow of traffic. John tugs on his arm. “Come on son, there’s a Soulmate Station just over here.”

John manoeuvres the pair of them into the area that’s set up specifically for occasions like this, with half a dozen semi- private areas for couples to take their time and soak in each other’s presence without being disturbed. Stiles lets his dad steer them, refusing to let go of Peter for even a second. Peter seems to feel the same, holding him tight as they sprawl across a sofa and just look at and touch each other. Stiles is dimly aware of it when his Dad tells him “Dale and I are going for coffee, we’ll be back. Don’t get lost,” but then all his concentration’s back on Peter.

Peter looks good. He’s tanned, the tips of his hair are bleached from the sun, and he exudes a relaxed air. Stiles runs a finger down his jaw, and whispers, “Missed you. Missed you so much, Peter.” Peter hums and leans in to give Stiles a kiss. It’s a little more heated than their usual kisses, making Stiles moan.  Peter pulls away with a satisfied smirk, and then he leans in and kisses Stiles again, slower this time, softer, and Stiles closes his eyes and soaks up the contact. Peter pulls away eventually, but Stiles doesn’t really mind, just being close is enough – the kissing’s just a bonus. It soothes him being near Peter, makes him feel complete, fills that Peter-shaped space in him.

Peter must feel the same, because he drapes himself over Stiles scenting him deeply, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, smiling so widely his eyes are creased in the corners. “I can’t believe you’re here, pup.” He ruffles a hand over Stiles’s shorn head. ”I like this. Why did you shave it?”

“You told me it would be hot,” Stiles shrugs. “Better for swimming and things, right?”

“Mmm. We won’t only be at the beach, you know. Dale has a list, he’s going to take us up the coast.” Peter nuzzles in more deeply.

“What about Julie?”

“She’s still working, She’ll met us in Exmouth. She’s up in Kununurra right now.”

Stiles snorts. “Those aren't even real places.”

Peter lifts his head and kisses Stiles on the forehead. “They're very real, pup. The place names here are something else. This whole country is. You’ll love it.”

Stiles sighs happily, and he’d be content to stay here all day, except his stomach growls at the same time that John appears.  “Shall we go, kiddo? You two have been there for half an hour, and I need to get to a real bed.”

Stiles blinks, surprised. If you’d asked him, he would have guessed they’d been there for maybe ten minutes. He untangles himself from Peter and stands, wobbling a little. “Yeah. Okay. Can we get food?”

“We’ll do a Macca’s run,” Dale says.  He and Peter grin when John frowns in confusion.

“A what, now?”

“You’ll see.” Dale and Peter gather up the bags and lead them out to the car. It’s warmer than Stiles anticipated, around 75, and he leans his head back and enjoys the sunshine after his long time on the flights. Dale chuckles at him. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice here. It’ll get hotter when we go north, but we’re here for a day or two.” 

Stiles gets in the car, and it takes him a moment to pinpoint what’s different - the steering wheel is on the right. He knew that they drove on the other side of the road here, but it just looks wrong to him. John must think the same thing, because as he climbs in the front, he tells Dale, “Not gonna lie, this seems ass about to me.” He gets a firm grip on the handle above the door and takes a deep breath.

Dale just laughs. “Hold onto the jesus bar if it makes you feel better, John, but I promise it’s safe.”

“What’s a jesus bar?” Stiles whispers to Peter.

“It’s what they call that grip bar over here,” Peter whispers back. Once you’ve seen how they drive over here, you’ll understand.”

Sure enough, as they pull out of the carpark and head towards the freeway, a car cuts in front of them with no warning, and John instinctively tightens his grip, hissing out “ Jesus!”

Dale snorts. “See? Perth folks think indicators are for other people,” he observes, and proceeds to merge in a move that has John tensing up.  A couple of minutes into their drive, Dale announces “Macca’s Run.”  The he pulls into a McDonald’s drive through window. Stiles’s eye light up with understanding. “This is a Macca’s, huh?” he asks, trying out the strange word. It feels strange in his mouth. Peter just nods and grins, going back to running a hand down Stiles’s arm. They collect their order and Dale passes the bag into the back seat, and Stiles devours his McMuffin, happy to quiet his growling stomach. Something are the same the world over, he thinks to himself.

Stiles curls up against Peter as they drive. They’re staying at a beachfront hotel, so it’s a half hour drive to get there, but he doesn’t care -he has Peter next to him, there’s plenty to see, and he’s in a kind of daze, gazing out the window and adjusting to the fact that the white lines aren’t where they should be. He can hear his dad muttering under his breath about the other drivers, and Dale laughing at him, telling him to relax, he can’t arrest anybody here. When they get to their hotel, Dale checks them all in. They get to their rooms, and Stiles stands at the window and stares. The ocean is _right there,_ and he’s seen the ocean before okay, he’s from California, but this is a whole _other_ ocean, and it’s right in front of him, literally across the street.

“Dad, can we?” Stiles points.

John groans from where he’s just sat down. “Maybe later, kiddo. I really gotta sleep.”

“I can go with you,” Peter offers. Stiles glances to his dad for permission.

“Fine, but don’t get run over crossing the damn road,” John mutters. Stiles dashes over and gives his dad a quick hug before ducking into his room and changing into board shorts and flip flops. “Ready!”

Peter’s standing there, making no move to get changed at all, just staring. Stiles looks down at himself frowning, “What is it? Is this not okay?”

Peter clears his throat and drags his gaze away from Stiles’s chest and arms. “You look fine, pup,” he says, his tone slightly strained. “I just…you grew up some, that’s all.”

Stiles finally registers what it is Peter’s talking about, and grins, “Oh! Oh yeah, Derek and Alpha helped me work out. I finally got some guns.” He flexes exaggeratedly, showing off his new physique. He’s not ripped by any means, but he has lean, sinewy muscle now. He’s no longer a skinny kid, and he’s proud of his achievement, so sue him.

“Stiles, put a shirt on, you’ll burn otherwise,” his Dad yawns out, not so tired that he misses the way Peter’s eyes are lingering on his son’s body.

“Good idea, pup,” Peter agrees. “Sun’s fierce here.”

Stiles is busy shrugging into a shirt, he doesn’t see Peter catch John’s eye and mouth _thank you_. John just nods, and settles into his armchair. “Just gonna take a little nap here, for now,” he announces, eyes slipping closed. “Don’t be too long. And avoid the sharks.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles literally throws himself into the water, splashing around and laughing, and Peter watches him with fondness. He remembers how cranky and unreasonable he’d been when he landed and compares it to Stiles’s happy countenance. It makes him feel old, watching how much energy Stiles still has. Stiles draws him out of his thoughts by splashing water at him, and Peter grabs Stiles and pulls him close, before throwing him up and away into the deeper water. Stiles shrieks with excitement as he sails through the air, and Peter can see him grinning as he hits the water. Stiles paddles back over. “That was awesome, do that again?”

And maybe Peter’s wolf wants to show off a little, so Peter happily tosses Stiles up and over the waves time after time, until they’ve both had enough. Stiles has started to shiver, so Peter wraps him in a beach towel and walks him back to their hotel, holding him close by his side as they walk across the road. When he delivers Stiles to his room, Stiles turns a wide eyed gaze on him, asking, “Peter, would you say that was a date?”

Peter holds back his smile, just. He can see where this is going. “Possibly, pup. Why do you ask?”

“Well I mean, you’ve walked me to the door and all…” Stiles’s lips part expectantly.

Peter puts his hands on Stiles’s waist and pulls him close, enjoying the feeling of bare skin beneath his hands far more than he probably should. He kisses Stiles properly, slipping his tongue into the soft, waiting mouth. He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t. But they’ve been apart for too long, and Stiles smells so damn good, and he really isn’t a child anymore, is teetering on the threshold of old enough for more, and Peter, just for once, lets himself take what he wants.

He kisses Stiles deep and hungry, only pulling back when he feels Stiles pressing their bodies together. “Best not, pup,” he sighs, even though his wolf is howling _yes, yes, yes, more._

Stiles is slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed pink. “Are you sure?” he whines.

Peter has to close his eyes, so they don’t flash, because for the first time, he’s _not_ sure. But the last thing he wants is to cross any lines, so he opens his eyes again, and kisses the tip of Stiles nose. “I’m sure, pup. But I won’t lie, I’m very tempted.”

Peter can see Stiles preening under the admission. Peter shoves Stiles towards the door of his and John’s apartment, telling him, “Go take a shower to warm up, and then try and sleep. We’ll come and collect you for dinner.”

Stiles steals one last peck, a lot more innocent than the others, and heads into his room. Peter watches the door close behind him, and then walks over to his and Dale’s apartment across the hall. He slips inside to find Dale sitting there reading. He raises an eyebrow at Peter, and Peter knows his arousal must be thick in the air. “I’m just gonna go…shower.”

Dale nods. “I’m going out for a while, while you…shower.” Peters cheeks burn, but he’s still grateful for the privacy. He heads into the bathroom and jerks off, his mind filled with images of the sight and taste and feel of Stiles under his hands, the way his body had looked twisting though the air and hitting the water. He comes quickly across his hand, and lets the water carry the mess away as he sighs to himself - satisfied, yet not.

 

* * *

 

 

When they meet Stiles and John several hours later for dinner, John pulls Peter aside. “You wanna do me a favor, kid, and dial it back a little? Stiles doesn’t need you stirring him up.”

Peter’s brow furrows. “Stirring him up how?”

John refuses to meet his eyes. “You know, _stirring him up_. When he came back from the beach he was in the bathroom for a hell of a long time, and the last thing I wanna listen to is my kid slapping the weasel, you know? He’s not exactly quiet about it,” John says, his expression begging Peter to understand.

“Slapping the..? Oh. _Oh!_ Shit, John, I’m sorry. I’ll try and keep it PG.”

John shoots him a grateful look, and mutters, “Yeah, you do that.”

Peter’s face flames, and he wonders if the next fortnight is going to consist of middle-aged men embarrassing him at every turn. He glances up and sees that Dale’s grinning at him, having heard every word, but Stiles is happily oblivious, too busy watching the sunset.

Dale takes them to a seafood restaurant, and Stiles is gleeful as he eats his body weight in freshly cooked tiger prawns, while John attacks the oyster bar. Peter introduces John to Australian beer, and he screws up his nose at the first couple of pints, but the he finds one he likes, a pale Ale from a local brewery. They’ve eaten huge amounts, and drunk more than enough, and Peter can see that Stiles and John are fading fast under the combination of jetlag and full stomachs, so he gives Dale a nod and they head home.

Stiles is asleep in the car before they get back to their hotel, so Peter hefts him over his shoulder effortlessly and carries him in, laying him out on the bed and sliding his shoes off. He can’t resist the urge to slip on the bed next to Stiles and just _inhale_. Stiles’s scent has changed, and Peter can’t get enough of it. As well as the aroma of sawdust and sweat and salt water, there’s a hint of ginger, with an undertone of musk and sex just creeping through. Peter kind of wants to lick Stiles, but he settles for breathing deeply, closing his eyes and soaking in this new, richer smell.

He can’t stay there forever though, so he drags himself away from his sleeping boy and bids John a goodnight. He goes back to the apartment he’s sharing with Dale, and spends a restless night resisting the urge to sneak back across the hall and wrap himself around his boy. 

 

* * *

 

 

They start their holiday properly the next day. They go to Rottnest Island on the ferry and see the quokkas, cute, curious marsupials that approach them when they sit quietly. They ride bikes around the tiny island, go swimming, take photos, and the whole time Peter and Stiles are joined at the hip. Peter honors his promise and keeps things seemly, going no further than holding Stiles’s hand and wrapping an arm around his shoulders as they walk. He does scent him every chance he gets, though, and Stiles grins as he tilts his head to allow Peter access.

In the evening they go to the Little Creatures brewery in Fremantle, and drink ice cold beer while they gaze over the water and eat perfectly cooked wood fired pizza. Stiles loves everything about the day, but the thing he likes the most is having Peter within reach. “This is so good,” he hums, laying his head on Peter’s shoulder and watching the seagulls as they land on the jetty.

“I know, pup. I enjoy having you close,” Peter tells him, echoing Stiles’s own thoughts. Stiles twists around a little, tilting his head hopefully, but Peter just smiles and ruffles his short hair. He leans in and whispers, “Kisses are at the end of dates, pup,” and Stiles has to be content with that. He holds Peter to his promise though. Once they get back to the hotel he waits until his dad’s gone inside, and looks at Peter expectantly. Peter smirks and gives Stiles his kiss. It’s sweet and chaste, and Stiles can’t lie - after yesterday, he was hoping for something more. But Peter shows no indication of letting it go any further, so Stiles makes do with one last long hug before he goes into his room.

Stiles is worn out, the deep sort of tiredness that comes from international travel and spending the day swimming and riding bikes, and once he’s ready for bed he only briefly thinks of sneaking across to Peter’s room before sleep drags him under. He doesn’t stir at all until the next morning.

 

* * *

 

 

They pack their bags and hit the road, climbing into Dale’s Landcruiser and heading up the coast. They stop a few times, spending an hour at the Pinnacles, marveling at the prehistoric  rock formations scattered around the desert sand. Dale insists they stop at Jurien Bay to jump off the jetty there. John looks dubious, but the boys both needle him until gives in and changes into a pair of swimming shorts, joining them on the jetty. “You’re sure this is allowed?” he queries.

Dale doesn’t bother to reply, just runs past John and launches himself in a cannonball. He hits the water with a mighty splash, and comes up laughing. “You next, sheriff, unless you’re too chickenshit!” he yells, and hell, if that doesn’t sound like a challenge to John.  He takes a deep breath, runs forward, and leaps. The water’s warmer than he was expecting, crystal clear and salty, and it leaves him feeling refreshed as it washes over him. He flips over onto his back and floats on the surface, feeling himself truly unwind for the first time in far too long. Dale floats by and gives him a lazy wave, and John gives one back. He could get used to this. There are two more splashes as the boys join them, and they spend a good half an hour floating in the shallows, splashing each other and fooling around. John notes the way Peter’s eyes flick over Stiles’s body and vice versa. Peter looks like he’s doing his best to control himself, but Stiles is more blatant in his admiration, displaying all the subtlety of a fourteen year old - that is to say, none.

They dry off and change, buy lunch at the ‘servo’ (John figures out that a servo is a petrol station/convenience store – everything in Australia somehow ends in -o or -ie, apparently), and they’re on their way again. They drive for the rest of the afternoon, aiming for their destination for the night, Kalbarri. There’s a national park there with stunning rock gorges and breathtaking cliff views, and Dale knows a guy with a boat, so there’s an early morning fishing charter on the agenda. After just a couple of days, John feels like he’s been on holiday for weeks already. He can’t say he minds.

 

* * *

 

 

Kalbarri’s picture perfect. John manages to hook half a dozen snapper, and Stiles three. Peter doesn’t catch anything but he doesn’t care, content to enjoy the slight rocking of the boat and the smell of the salt air as he sits as close to Stiles as he can without getting a fish hook caught in his arm. (“One cast, Peter, that was _one cast!”_ )

The go to the tropical bird park with the walk in aviary, hike along the cliffs, prise fresh oysters off the rocks, and wander around the tiny town.  Peter stays glued to Stiles’s side, and Stiles tilts his head to the side in order to let Peter scent him some more, because he can tell how much Peter appreciates it. Stiles himself feels like he’s swallowed some sort of magical contentment potion – it’s like he’s floating on a cloud of quiet happiness just from getting to be so close to Peter for so long. They’re meeting Julie in Exmouth, but their schedules’ not set in stone – the nature of the research they’re doing means their time frame’s pretty flexible.

They spend the next week meandering up the coast, and Stiles soaks up every minute of the whole experience, whether they’re dolphin watching at Monkey Mia, driving up long hours of straight highway with not even a bend in the road, or swatting away endless flies whiles stopped at a desert roadhouse. He watches as his dad chills out more than Stiles has ever seen him do in his entire life, and if for no other reason than that, he’s glad they got to take this holiday, even if it does mean Peter being away for such a long time.

He tries repeatedly to get Peter to repeat those hot, heavy kisses from their first night, but it’s a futile effort. Peter keeps it sweet, and if Stiles tries to initiate anything more, he’s met with a firm, ”No means no, Pup.” He’s pretty sure it’s because his dad’s there, so he makes sure to get Peter alone as often as he can. He thinks he’s making headway one afternoon, when they’re sharing a kiss while they swim in waist deep waters, their kisses turning more urgent and Peter’s hands gripping his waist and pulling him in close enough that Stiles can feel their erections brush together through their board shorts, but then Peter almost shoves him away, panting. “I _can’t_ , Stiles. Don’t ask me, alright?”

“Why can’t you?” Stiles grumbles, feeling distinctly put out. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “Because you’re not even fourteen, pup. And I promised your dad we’d behave.” Stiles guesses that makes sense, and he knows that Peter’s just trying to do the right thing, but he also feels the sting of rejection. He dives under the waves and paddles away, giving himself some space to lick his wounds and put on a brave face. When he finally swims back over to Peter, he lets out a gusty sigh. “I guess I can stop teasing you. I mean, it’s probably already hard to resist me. I’m pretty adorable.”

“Thank you, baby,” Peter tells him, and the relief written on his face is obvious. They carry on swimming, but Stiles is careful not to pull Peter too close, not to rub against him like he’s been trying to do.  He sticks to splashing and flailing and generally being a dumbass, and he can tell when Peter finally relaxes.

They head for the shore, and when they get there, Dale’s grinning, mischief in his expression.  “I thought we could all do with a treat. It’s time for a Golden Gaytime.”

John sputters out, “A what now?”

“It’ll be some weird Australian thing,” Stiles predicts sagely,as he watches Dale walk to the tiny store further up the beach. He’s proven correct when Dale comes back with a bag containing ice creams that proudly proclaim _It’s hard to have a Gaytime on your own_ on the wrapper.

They’re delicious, but John still snorts when he looks at the name. “Goddam Australians,” he mutters.

“Yup. Whole country are a pack of trolls,” Dale nods. It’s a nice way to end their afternoon, eating ice creams and watching the waves. Stiles catches Peter’s eye and grins at him.

“Having a good time, pup?” Peter asks quietly.

“The best time.”  Stiles shuffles over and closes the gap between him and Peter, leaning their shoulders together and trying not to be too obvious about staring at Peter’s tanned body. Peter leans back into him, and Stiles tilts his head. “Snuffle away, wolfy,” he teases, and Peter pokes out his tongue, but he does. Stiles resists the urge to put his hands all over Peter, and settles for enjoying the press of their skin where they’re propped against each other.

 

* * *

 

 

They only spend a day at Coral Bay, but for Stiles it’s one of the highlights of the trip so far. Dale tells them it’s a perfect spot for snorkeling, but it’s only when they get there that Stiles gets what he means. The weather’s been getting gradually warmer as they head north, and it’s in the nineties when they park their car. Dale and John get the snorkeling gear and the sunscreen out the back of the cruiser for them while Stiles races down to the waters’ edge.

It’s flat and still, and crystal clear. He wanders in, and when he looks down he lets out a gasp. The water’s only mid way up his calves, but there are half a dozen large fish swimmingly idly around, and he can actually _see_ coral from where he’s standing. “Peter! Come see! _Fish!_ ” he yells out loudly. Peter nods and walks over carrying a snorkel and mask for Stiles.

“You wait till you get underwater, pup. I hear it’s amazing.”  Peter slips on his own mask and goggles, takes a half a dozen steps forwards, and then ducks under the barely waist deep water. Stiles pulls on his mask and flippers and rapidly follows him.  He doesn’t even have to dive, his feet can still touch the bottom, but what greets him is something like a scene from a David Attenborough special. A school of tiny neon tropical fish flurry past his face, and just past them Stiles can see bright blue and green fish, pink fish, and giant mounds of coral. He sees Peter off to the left and gives him a thumbs up, before swimming away, following the fish. He’s absurdly pleased when he comes across giant clams and finds that they look exactly like they do in cartoons, except that the lips glow a bright luminescent blue. Stiles is fascinated.

It’s like every exotic fish Stiles has even read about or seen on TV  lives here, and he loves it. It settles him, lazily flippering his feet and staring at the riot of color around him, lost in his own thoughts. He gets so absorbed in what he’s looking at that he doesn’t notice Peter signalling him, and he nearly has a heart attack when he feels something grab his leg. He flails madly trying to escape, only to see Peter there, laughing at him. He rights himself in the water and spits out his mouthpiece. “Asshole! I thought you were a shark!” he exclaims, heart still thundering in his chest.

“I’m sorry, pup. I’ve been trying to get your attention. It’s lunch time.”  Peter smirks, pointing at the beach where John and Dale are standing.

Stiles gapes at him. “It can’t be! We just got here!”

Peter shakes his head. You’ve been swimming for three hours, pup. Don’t worry, after we eat you can go back in.”

Stiles takes in the way his fingers are wrinkled and pruny, the burn in his arm and leg muscles from the constant swimming, and concedes that okay, maybe time got away from him. He drags himself out of the water, casting a longing backwards glance at the angelfish he sees there. John throws a towel round his shoulders, and makes a contented noise. “Damn, this place is something else.”

They eat at a local café, then they lay in the shade while their lunch settles and their sunscreen dries. John takes photos of them all to send back to Ruth and Tom, as well as plenty of pictures of the clear blue sky, startling white sand and perfectly flat ocean. The whole place looks like it’s something out of a painting, honestly. Stiles hooks his little finger through his dad’s and tugs him along to the water’s edge. They stand staring out over the ocean together, and Stiles sighs. “I love this. Can we move here?”

John hums. “Okay. I’ll hand in my badge, and we’ll move here, buy an RV. Forget Peter and the pack, it’ll be just you and me, traveling. Sound good?”

Stiles screws up his nose. “Maybe not.”

John chuckles. “Thought you’d say that. How about we just enjoy it while we’re here?” And with that he pulls Stiles forwards into the water. For the next hour they drift along beneath the surface, watching the flurry of colour and movement that makes up the local marine life. It’s only when Stiles is hit by a sudden wall of tiredness that he grudgingly gets out of the water. They decide it’s time to pack up for the day, and head for their accommodation. Tomorrow, they’re going to Exmouth.

 

* * *

 

 

They drive into town, and Julie’s waiting there for them at their motel. She throws her arms around Dale’s neck and kisses him, and he returns it passionately. He whispers something in her ear that has her snickering, and then she’s pulling him into a kiss again. John leaves them to it and starts unpacking the car, Peter and Stiles following suit. By the time they’ve emptied all the bags out, Julie’s unwrapped herself from her husband and greets rest of them warmly. Her eyes keep flicking over to Dale though, and Stiles can see the moment his dad decides to cut them a break. “Looks like you two got some catching up to do. Why don’t we drive into town and take a look, leave you in peace?”

“I’ll drive,” Peter volunteers. He’s had some experience on Australian roads, so Dale throws him the keys with a wide smile.

“Don’t hit any stray animals,” he instructs.  Stiles  knows Dales’ not kidding about the strays. On the drive up here, they had to stop no less than six times for animals– goats, sheep, cattle, and emus, wandering across the road without a care, impervious to the car horn being tooted at them. That’s not counting the kangaroos that bounded out into the road without warning at regular intervals. There’s a picture on Peter’s camera of John standing at the Tropic of Capricorn, pointing to the sign and smiling widely, looking every inch the tourist. In the background, there’s a goat. 

Peter grins and catches the keys. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Dale grabs Julie’s hand and drags her inside, and the door’s slammed behind them before Stiles even has his seatbelt buckled.  Peter drives them into town and they poke around at the shops, but it really is a one horse town – a supermarket, two takeout places, a bank and a post office kind of place.  John looks at Peter for a moment before saying, “Well I don’t know about you, but it feels like Beer O’clock to me. There a bar around here?”

They settle in at a pub with ocean views and spend a couple of hours just talking and eating and drinking. Peter tells them more about his experiences over here, and Stiles is happy to just sit there with them both and soak up the sunshine and the views. He leans into Peter’s side, and Peter keeps his fingers twined loosely with Stiles’s under the table except for when they’re eating. It’s nice, makes Stiles feel settled, taken care of in a way he can’t define. They talk about his birthday the next day, and Stiles tries and fails to get Peter or John to tell him what his surprise gift is. They’re both looking extremely pleased with themselves, so he knows it must be something good, but he’s looked though their bags and hasn’t found anything. He figures maybe Dale’s holding onto it.

When they get back, John naps while Peter and Stiles spend the afternoon in the pool, lazily flicking water on each other and holding a staring contest with the two emus that have taken up residence around the pool. Peter has to cheat in the end, letting out a low growl and flashing his eyes to get them to blink.

That night they go out to dinner, where they catch up with Julie properly. She and Dale tell the story of Peter’s Australia Day experience, doing an uncanny imitation of a drunken Peter singing Australian rock classics while he laughs along with them, freely admitting he has no recollection whatsoever of singing “ _I come from a land Down Under_ ” at the top of his lungs while standing on top of someone’s outdoor bar. Dale helpfully produces some picture he’s taken, and Stiles snorts with laughter, because Peter looks nothing like his normal perfectly groomed  self. For some reason he has an Australian Flag draped around him like a cape, he has stripes of zinc cream on his face like warpaint, and when the picture was taken he appears to have been using a beer bottle as a microphone.

“How come you were fit to take pictures? I thought Australia Day was a free for all?” John asks, interested.

Dale laughs. “I’ve been here before, and learned my lesson. Never trust Australian home brew, and never trust anyone called Davo.”

Peter nods in agreement. It’s not that late, but John checks his watch, and nudges Stiles. “Time to get you to bed, kiddo. Sooner you go to sleep, the sooner it’s your birthday.”  Stiles doesn’t argue, worn out from the day’s travelling and swimming, and they turn in early.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter knocks quietly on John and Stiles’ door, and John lets him in. It’s 6.00 am, but they need to be ready early for Stiles’s surprise, and Peter wants to wake his boy for his birthday. John silently hands Peter a cup of coffee, and they drink in silence together, waking up slowly. When he’s finished, Peter opens the door and slips into Stiles’s room, and wraps himself around him from behind. He takes a moment to revel in the closeness and warmth of the body sleeping there, and scent Stiles deeply. If he happens to rub himself against the blankets so they smell of him, that’s between him and his wolf. “Morning, Stiles,” he whispers, and Stiles jerks awake, stiffening in Peter’s arms before relaxing seconds later, his scent turning pleased.

Stiles squirms around in Peter’s hold till he’s facing him, still blinking. He manages to keep his eyes open, smiling dopily. “’S my birthday.” 

“Yes it is, pup.” Peter plants a kiss on the tip of Stiles’s nose. “And you need to get up and ready, because the bus arrives in an hour.”

Stiles’s brow creases in confusion. “What bus? Where are we going?”

Peter grins, and leans in for a quick peck. “We're going on a boat trip.” He waits a beat before adding, ”Whale sharks, pup.”

Stiles’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open. “ _No!”_

Peter nods, enjoying the look of surprise of Stile’s face. “Yes. Happy birthday.”

Stiles sits up in bed, beaming. Peter knows he’s wanted to go swimming with the whale sharks, since he found out this is the only place in the world that you can. There was really no question of doing anything else for his birthday. Stiles drags Peter up and into a hug. “Thank you! This is – it’s – Scott’s gonna be _soooo jealous_!” Peter preens at that – as far as Stiles is concerned, Scott being _soooo_ jealous is the highest praise there is.

“It’s from your dad as well, pup, best go thank him,” he suggests – partly because Stiles really should thank his dad, and partly because having a contented smelling, nearly naked, Stiles in his lap with his arms around Peter’s neck is making it very hard to resist the urge to pin him to the bed and kiss him senseless, fourteen be damned. He gives Stiles an affectionate shove, and Stiles takes the hint and goes out to their kitchen where Peter hears him telling John this is the _best present ever_. Peter takes a minute to think calming thoughts and gather himself, before going out to join them as they bustle about getting breakfast ready and packing for the day.

They’re waiting when the bus arrives, Stiles bouncing with excitement. On the drive there the whole bus sings happy birthday to him, and he soaks up the attention. By the time they board the boat and head out on the water, he’s already proclaiming it the best birthday ever, Peter the best soulmate ever, and his father the best dad ever.  Peter watches him fondly, and smiles at John, who’s sitting next to him. “I think we picked a winner.”

“Uh huh. Hope to god we see the damn things after all this,” John mutters.

It turns out, he needn’t have worried. They get the chance to snorkel on Ningaloo reef first, and then after a morning tea which includes a cake for Stiles, they head out a little deeper, and it’s not long before the spotter plane contacts them to tell them the whale sharks have been located.  The boat takes off towards where the massive dark shapes have appeared in the water. They’re easily fifteen feet long, and Stiles makes inarticulate screeching noises as he points. They’ve all been fitted with wetsuits, masks and flippers, and the tour guide leads them off the boat and into the water.  Peter looks on in awe as the giant body glides past, and he can feel himself grin. He glances over at Stiles, and sees a look of pure joy on his face. Stiles swims a little closer, and Peter sees John just behind him. In that moment, father and son have identical expressions on their faces, and it’s easy to see the family resemblance. Peter briefly wonders what Stiles will look like when he’s older, whether he’ll inherit Noah’s solid build. But his thoughts are soon dragged back to the present as the whale shark looms closer and Stiles clutches at his arm, pointing and grinning around his snorkel. The creature's dark skin is mottled with white spots, and Peter’s mesmerised by it. Judging by his expression, so is Stiles.

They spent a long time in the water just marvelling at the animals, swimming as close as they can, before the tour guide signals that it’s time to break for lunch. They go back inside the reef and eat, Stiles unable to get the smile off his face. He makes sure to get plenty of pictures taken of him and Peter, telling Peter he’s going to frame them all as soon as he gets back home.  Afterwards there’s more swimming with the sharks, more snorkelling, and then they cruise back at a steady pace, spotting sea turtles and dugongs on the way. By the time the boat docks, they’re all in agreement that it’s one of the best days they’ve had.  

“Thank you, this was awesome.” Stiles leans against Peter’s side, tilting his head back, and Peter doesn’t need to scent him to know that he’s utterly happy right now.

“Welcome, sweetheart,” Peter tells him without thinking. Stile’s grin gets wider, and his scent grows even sweeter, rich and full and alluring. Peter cocks an eyebrow at him when he pinpoints exactly what Stiles smells like. “What has you smelling so….smug?”

“You called me _sweetheart_. You normally call me pup. You _like_ me,” Stiles teases.

Peter laughs and pulls Stiles closer. “Of course I do. You’re stuck with me, pup.”

Stiles hums happily. “I don’t mind.” He pulls Peter in for a proper kiss, and Peter lets him. It's his birthday, after all.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey, have some pretty pretty pictures of the trip!  
> Rottnest Island  
>   
> The Pinnacles  
>   
> Jurien Bay Jetty  
>   
> Coral Bay - possibly one of my favorite places so it gets two pics  
> 
> 
>   
> And of course, the whale sharks at Ningaloo Reef - this is a real thing you can do, I promise.  
>   
>   
> And of course, this  
> 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year's a long time to be apart, but at least Peter will be home for Christmas, right?....Right?

 

Two days before Stiles and John are due to fly out, it’s a full moon. Dale, Julie and Peter have been invited to run with a local pack, and it’s something of an honor.  Dale invites them to come along, but John demurs. “I think we’ll just spend the night in, if that’s okay. I’m worn out.”

It’s no wonder – they’ve spent the last few days swimming, walking through sand dunes, and snorkelling, and Stiles isn’t far behind John in terms of tiredness. He’s peeling across his shoulders, and a few stray freckles have popped up across the bridge of his nose. Peter likes to tease him about them, but he always leans in and kisses the tip of Stiles’s nose, so Stiles doesn’t mind.

They wave the werewolves goodbye, and John throws an arm across Stiles’s shoulders.  “Hey, kiddo. What do you say we order some pizza and eat it outside?”  Stiles hums his agreement, and they do just that. They settle themselves in a couple of sun loungers around the pool, gazing up at the stars and listening to the insects in the night air as they eat. The moon is round and silver, high in the sky, and if they listen carefully they can hear distant howling. Stiles knows the wolves are running nearby in the red sands of the outback, but he’s happy where he is, laying back with a full stomach and his dad by his side.

They spend the evening together, talking about everything and nothing - about school and home and family, and Stiles finds himself smiling softly. It’s nice, spending time like this with his dad. They don’t get to do it much in a pack house, and Stiles hadn’t known he missed it. The pair of them ramble on till nearly midnight, and only drag themselves inside when Stiles starts stretching and yawning.  His father ruffles his hair. “You done in, kiddo?”

Stiles starts to shake his head, but then he yawns again, and nods instead. John helps him up out of his chair and they wander inside together. Stiles showers quickly, too tired to drag it out, and his dad actually comes into his room and tucks him in. “Ready to go home on Friday?” he asks.

Stiles screws up his face. “Do we have to?”

John chuckles. “Yep. Back to the real world. God knows what's happened at the station without me. And I miss the pack.”

“I guess. I miss Tom and Ruth. And Scotty. But I don’t wanna leave Peter again,” Stiles mumbles sleepily.

“Next time you see him though, he won’t be leaving. He’ll be back for good,” John reminds Stiles gently.

Stiles smiles at the thought. “Yeah, he will.” His eyes flutter closed, and he’s asleep before John’s even closed the door.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, there’s a knock on their door at 6am. Stiles hears the knock, and drags himself out of bed, still blinking the sleep away. “I got it,” he calls out to his father, his voice breaking a little. He opens the door to find Peter standing there, still wearing his clothes from last night. Stiles opens the door further and Peter crowds him inside, letting out a breathless, “Sweetheart.”

Peter grabs Stiles by the hips and pulls him in close, barely pausing to mumble, “Can I – I need – the moon,“ and nodding at Stiles’s neck. Stiles understands immediately and tilts his head to the side. Peter lets out a possessive rumble and then his face is buried in the crook of Stiles’s neck, scenting him deeply and unashamedly, pulling in great lungsful of his soulmates scent. “Perfect, you smell so good pup, if you only knew,” Peter groans out.

Stiles stays where he is, soaking up the feel of Peter’s hands on his hips, his breath hot against Stiles’s neck, his body a solid wall that Stiles leans against. He can feel that Peter’s hard, but he doesn’t mention it – his Dad’s in the next room, and as much as he’d like this to go further, he knows it can’t - not here, not now. Finally Peter lifts his head, looking slightly self-conscious. “Sorry pup, I don’t know what came over me. I just, I needed to see you, to scent you.”

Stiles takes a chance and leans in and kisses Peter. He keeps it soft and sweet, and when they part, he’s smiling. “What are you apologizing for?”

Peter rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know? Waking you up because my wolf’s needy?”

Stiles wraps his hands around Peter’s back and holds him close. “I don’t mind, trust me. I need to see as much of you as I can before we leave.”

Peter frowns at the reminder. “I can’t believe it’s tomorrow. Where did the time go?”

“I think we spent it at the beach.” Stiles sighs at the thought of leaving. “How long till you’re home again?”

Peter closes his eyes and nuzzles into Stiles, not bothering to reply. They both know it’s eight months, and they both know another visit’s impossible. Saying it out loud would depress them both. Instead they just stand there wrapped in each other, savouring the moment.

“You know what I wanna do today?” Stiles asks eventually.

“Beach?” Peter’s grinning as he says it, because Stiles has dragged them to the water every single day so far.

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope. I wanna spend it with you, doing this. I need to soak up a lot of wolfy goodness to keep me going when I get home.”

“Mmmhmm. That does sound good, sweetheart.” Peter’s hands grip his hips a little tighter for just a second before he sighs and nudges Stiles backwards. “How about you go get dressed, and I’ll make us breakfast, and then we’ll find somewhere we can just…be, today.”

Stiles heads to the bathroom for a shower, and his dad pokes his head out of his bedroom door as Stiles passes. “Hey, kiddo. Sounds like you’re spending the day with your boyfriend, huh?” Stiles smiles as he nods. “Fine. Be home for dinner. And Stiles?” John looks him in the eye as he says, “Behave. I know you want more, but you’re only fourteen.” Stiles flushes at the implications of what his dad’s saying, because maybe _, maybe_ it had crossed his mind to push the boundaries a little.

“You’re the fun police, you know that, right?’ he grumbles.

“I’m the literal police, kiddo, and don’t you forget it. Now bring your old man a coffee.”

Stiles has no reply to that.

 

* * *

 

 

After breakfast, Peter asks John if he’d be okay with he and Stiles spending the day in his room. “I’d keep the door open of course, but it would mean I’d have Stiles’s scent in my space. It’s a wolf thing,” he explains earnestly.

John rolls his eyes. “You say that like I haven’t lived in a pack house for the past six years and seen you all rubbing yourselves against the bedding and furniture. Trust me, I get it. Take the kid into your space, it’s fine.”

Peter beams at him, and then Stiles is tugging at his hand and pulling Peter across to his rooms impatiently. They’re barely in the door before Stiles has stripped out of his shirt and kicked his thongs off, launching himself onto the bed and landing with a low _oof_. He rolls onto his back and starfishes out, grinning madly. “Gonna come over here any time soon, or are you just gonna stand there and look?”

Peter laughs. “Patience, sweetheart. Let me get my shoes off first.”

“Well hurry up. I need to pack eight months’ worth of touch into one day,” Stiles grizzles, arms held out in a _gimme_ gesture. Peter toes his shoes off and crawls up the bed, settling against the headboard. Stiles tugs at the hem Peter’s t shirt. “Why is this still on?”

Peter sighs. Stiles always was an insistent little shit. “Shirts off, but everything else stays on. And zipped,” he adds, when he catches Stiles eyeing the front of his pants speculatively. Stiles pouts, but then Peter peels his shirt off and Stiles is distracted by running his hands over Peter’s abs.

He pauses for a moment to ask, “This is okay, right?”

“Of course, pup.” Peter opens his arms and nudges at Stiles till he’s sprawled across Peter, head resting against his chest. Stiles sighs with contentment and burrows in, his hand still stroking idly up and down Peter’s side. Peter closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Stiles, wrapping an arm around his pup’s shoulders. He’s painfully aware that it’s going to be a long, long time before they get to do this again. Stiles relaxes against him, mumbling “S’ nice. Let’s just not move.”

“Sounds good,” Peter agrees. They lay there just like that for a long time. Eventually Stiles starts rambling about what his favorite parts of the trip were, what he’s going to do when he gets home, about how he’s going to try and convince Derek that drop bears are real. Peter lets the words wash over him, making affirmative noises in all the right places, but mainly concentrating on the weight and heat of Stiles’ body pressed against his. Stiles must know he’s not really listening, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just keeps talking, and petting Peter’s side, and snuggling up close. After a while, he hesitantly says,”Peter?”

Something in his tone makes Peter’s eyes snap open. His boy has an expression on his face that Peter recognises immediately. It’s the face that means Stiles has had a terrible idea and he’s going to try and convince Peter that they should do it anyway. Peter sits up a little. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“So, I was thinking, you like it when things smell of me, right? So maybe we could get under the blankets, and then it would _really_ smell like me.” Peter raises an eyebrow, because he knows that’s not all.

“And?” he prompts.

“Stiles burrows against his side, and Peter hears his heartbeat speeding up. “I was thinking, what if I –“

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!’ Stiles protests.

“I can guess, pup.” Stiles wilts under Peter’s gaze.

“You and Dad don’t want me to have any fun,” he mutters darkly.

Peter sighs, and tilts Stiles’s face up for a kiss. He makes it a little deeper than he usually does, hoping to dispel the scent of disappointment and rejection coming off Stiles. When they part, he holds Stiles’s gaze. “Sweetheart, there’s going to be a time where I will happily take you up on all your suggestions, I promise. But not yet.”

Stiles’s shoulders slump and he sighs loudly. “Why isn’t time travel a thing yet? Then I could fast forward to the good stuff.”

Peter laughs softly. “If you time travelled you’d still be fourteen and I’d be even older,” he points out. “That’s the opposite of what we want.” He kisses Stiles again before adding, “ We’ll get there, I promise. And when we do, I suspect you’ll be an absolute handful.”

 “Well can we get under the blankets at least?” Stiles is still pouting a little, so Peter kisses his scowl away.

“We can definitely get under the blankets.” Stiles brightens at that, and they tuck themselves beneath the comforter, where they spend the next hour just holding each other and whiling away time with a convoluted conversation about the implications of time travel.

 

* * *

 

 

They only emerge for lunch, spending the rest of the day wrapped up together. By the end of it Peter feels almost drunk with Stiles’s constant presence and touch. He knows the effects of being near his soulmate are exaggerated because they’ve been apart for so long, but he still lets himself enjoy the slightly drugged haze he finds himself in. Stiles must be feeling it too, because he doesn’t make any more inappropriate suggestions, just happy little sounds as he gets as close to Peter as he can, stroking his hair and placing tiny pecks on his biceps with a giggle. Peter lets him get away with it, just this once.

They leave it as long as possible to drag themselves from the bed and meet the others for dinner. Stiles sits as close as he can, holding Peter’s hand under the table when he’s not eating. Peter doesn’t mind in the least.  They have a 6 am flight so they make it an early night, but even though they’ve spent all day together, Peter finds it hard to leave Stiles at the door to his room. “I’m so glad you came to see me, sweetheart,” he confesses. “I don’t think I would have been able to do this otherwise.”

He sees Stiles’s chest puff up at that. “Really?”

“Really. I miss you just as much as you miss me, pup. Maybe more.” Peter hugs Stiles one more time, steals a last kiss, and then propels him into his room with a light swat to the rump that makes Stiles grin widely. Once Stiles is inside, Peter stands there for a minute, head resting on the closed door. He misses Stiles already. He has to take a deep breath and remind himself that this is how Stiles must have felt each and every time Peter headed back to college, and if Stiles can cope, so can he. He’s the adult here, after all.

When he goes to climb into bed, he finds that Stiles, the sneaky little bastard,  has left a couple of his worn shirts behind, carefully folded and tucked inside Peter’s pillowslip. Peter grins at the gesture, and makes a mental note to request that housekeeping not make his bed for the rest of his stay. He doesn’t know how long the delicious aroma of spices and honey and sandalwood that makes up Stiles will cling to his sheets, but he wants to enjoy it as long as he can. He sends a picture of himself laying shirtless on the bed with the shirts from Stiles draped over his belly and a wide smile on his face with the caption **tfw your soulmate is the best.**

His phone pings seconds later.  **Yes, yes I am.**

 

* * *

The airport’s exactly as bad as Stiles thought it would be. He and Peter hold onto each other until the last second, and Stiles swallows the lump in his throat determinedly as he tells himself that just this once, he won’t cry like a little kid. Luckily the terminal’s tiny and theirs is the only flight, so there’s no chance of them missing it, and the woman working the gate is very understanding. Eventually though, she clears her throat. “I’m sorry, but everyone else has boarded.”

Stiles glances over at her, and decides that to hell with it, just this once he’s not going to _behave._ He gets a hand in Peter’s hair and pulls him forwards for one last kiss, and puts everything he has into it - all the want, all the desperation, all the affection. He traces his tongue against Peter’s closed mouth, willing him to respond, and after a second, Peter does. He opens his mouth, but he also somehow takes control, and they kiss, hungry and dirty and unlike anything Stiles has ever experienced. Stiles can’t help the moan that escapes him, and they’re both panting by the time they part.  “You’re a brat,” Peter tells Stiles fondly, but the broad smile on his face belies his words.

“I’m your brat.” Stiles goes to lean in for another kiss but a firm hand on his shoulder stops him.

“You’re a brat who’s holding up the _whole damn flight_ , kiddo. Say goodbye and get on the plane.” John sighs, and adds, “I know, okay? But we really gotta go.”

Peter gives Stiles one last squeeze and whispers, “Travel safe, sweetheart,” and then John steers Stiles towards the gate. Stiles is still waving as he walks up the steps, but at least he’s not crying this time.

That comes later, on the flight. Stiles turns his face towards the window and closes his eyes as the tears fall, not wanting his dad to see, not wanting to be comforted, just wanting to be allowed this little bit of time to wallow. His dad picks up on his mood, and leaves him be, his only acknowledgement when he presses a couple of tissues into Stiles’s hand silently. Stiles appreciates it, and when he’s finished sniffling and feeling sorry for himself, he leans his head against his dad’s shoulder and takes a deep breath, calming himself. “Thanks Pops, that was the best holiday,” he says, just to let his dad know that he’s fine. Even if he isn’t, quite yet.

“I’m glad you had a good time, kid.”  John runs his hand over Stiles’s buzzcut affectionately. They’re flying to Perth, then Sydney, then home, and Stiles tries not to think about the long trip ahead of them. It was exciting when they were on their way, but Stiles is learning one of the sad, undeniable facts about travel – the trip home’s never as much fun.

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles gets home, it takes some time for his body to adjust to the differing time zones and to recover from his trip.  He sleeps for nine hours. John sleeps for fourteen. 

The day after they return, the rest of the pack and Scott, Melissa and Kira turn up to celebrate Stiles’s birthday. There are gifts, and cake, and hugs, and they all help soothe the ache Stiles feels at being away from Peter again. Derek teases Stiles about his inability to get a tan, but he also hugs him close, keeping an arm draped over his shoulders, and Stiles is quietly grateful that Derek seems to sense that he needs the comfort. Stiles leans into him, and Derek murmurs “You okay?” Stiles nods mutely. He’s not, not really. But he will be.

He gets back into a routine. School, walking the dog, running with Derek, lacrosse with Scott, homework, gym. Rinse and repeat. It’s dull, but it passes the time while he resigns himself to just counting down the days till Peter’s home. He switches to counting the months, because it doesn’t sound so long that way.

April becomes May becomes June, and Stiles and Peter cope. Stiles wheedles an international call plan out of his dad with free texting, so that at least when they can’t call they can leave messages. They learn to navigate time zones and school days and unreliable cell phone reception, especially at Peter’s end. They have weird, stilted conversations – Stiles will hear nothing from Peter and then suddenly nine messages will all pour in at once in a bizarre jumble, because Peter’s driven past a phone tower somewhere in the back of beyond. Stiles will reply to all of them, and hope Peter knows which answer goes with which text.

Stiles is pulled up more that once for texting in class, and his protests of “But Peter only has reception _right_ _now!_ ” carry no weight with his teachers at all. John gets a call telling him that if  Stiles’s phone doesn't stay off during class it'll be confiscated. It turns out that  it doesn't matter, because Peter’s out of reach more and more frequently. There’s only one carrier for remote Australian areas, and they aren’t all that reliable – there are vast tracts of country where there’s no coverage at all, and those are the places Peter’s working now. A lot of the time, he simply can’t be reached.

One morning at 4 am though, Stiles’s phone pings. He rolls over and peers at the screen, still fuzzy headed, and finds a text.

**I have coverage. Skype me?**

Stiles sends back **!!!!!!!!!!!!** and hurries to open his laptop. Minutes later Peter’s face appears, smiling broadly. He’s more tanned than usual, and he’s wearing something that looks like it could be a cowboy hat, in an alternate universe.

Stiles beams at the sight of him. “I missed you so much, Peter. Where are you, and what the hell is that on your head?”

“It's an Akubra. It's iconic over here.  And would you believe I’m at a place called Wolf Creek?”  Stiles barely holds back his laughter, but he doesn’t want anyone telling him off for being awake in the middle of the night, on a school night, no less, so he bites his lip to keep from making too much noise. Peter grins at Stiles’s reaction. “There’s nothing here. I’m in the middle of the outback and we’re camping for a week.”

Stiles sighs happily and lets his fingers run down the screen. “Tell me about your month? “

And Peter does. He tells tales of flat tires in the middle of nowhere, of camping, of seeing wild camels, of missing Stiles and wishing he could see him somehow. As he speaks, Stiles looks at the screen more closely, and something’s off about the picture in front of him. He can’t see the red dirt of the horizon, and Peter’s picture is at a decidedly odd angle, like he’s balancing his laptop on his knees. “Peter, where exactly are you sitting?”

“I drove to the nearest decent hill,” Peter answers, maddeningly vague. Stiles knows there’s something Peter isn’t telling him, but he’s so happy to hear from him he doesn’t press. It’s only when they’ve been talking for about twenty minutes that he asks.

“You’re not up a tree or something to get this signal, are you?”

“Not a tree, no.” It’s a very Peter answer – it’s not a lie, but Stiles knows he’s missing something.

“So where, exactly and in great detail, are you sitting right this very second?”

“This very second?” Stiles nods, folding his arms over his chest and waiting. Finally Peter says, “Promise not to laugh?”

“Promise.”

It turns out that _this very second_ , Peter is parked on the top of the highest point for thirty miles, and he’s sitting in a folding chair perched on the roof of the cab of his Landcruiser, in an effort to get that extra foot of height that he needed to get a signal. He tells Stiles he had to move the cruiser four times, and it took him over an hour before he found his perfect spot.

“You’re telling me you spent an hour and a half driving around looking for somewhere you could get a signal, and then you hauled a chair and your laptop and your wolfy ass on to the roof of the truck, just so you could talk to me?” Stiles is delighted.

“I missed you, and after this I really will be out of touch for a while, so I had to make the most of it.”

Stiles  tells Peter he’s a fool, and it’s the most romantic thing Stiles has ever heard of, but it would still serve Peter right if he fell off the roof and broke his neck. Peter just shrugs, saying, “Werewolf healing,” but his cheeks pink under the praise. They stay on the line for another hour, giggling and talking quietly, until Peter’s connection starts to fail and they have to hang up. Stiles crawls back into bed, but he doesn’t sleep. He lays there, smiling to himself and imagining Peter balanced on top of a truck on top of a hill, talking to him.

 

* * *

 

 

Off grid really does mean off grid. There are no calls, no texts, nothing. Stiles is pretty bummed about it, and he pines intensely for about three weeks, to the point where John starts quietly looking up the cost of flights, and whether it’s even possible to get transport to these godforsaken places. He needn’t have worried, though.  Salvation arrives in the form of honest to god, old fashioned, handwritten letters. When the first one arrives, Stiles looks at the envelope curiously. He grins when he realizes it’s from Peter. He takes it up to his room and opens it, and finds five pages packed with Peter’s writing, both sides crammed full of news and observations, declarations of affection, and pleas for Stiles not to forget him, the last written in the style of a romance novel. Stiles gets the impression that it’s something Peter’s written in fits and starts, and he finds the thought of Peter adding a line or two whenever he gets the chance hopelessly endearing. It reminds him of scenes from the old war movies his dad watches, where the soldier writes to his one true love back home.

Ruth holds her hand over her heart and sighs when Stile shows her the letter. “Oh honey, that’s so romantic! The closest thing I ever got to a love letter from Tom was a note shoved into my locker telling me I had a sweet caboose.”

Tom comes up behind Ruth and wraps his arms around her. “You still have a pretty sweet caboose, baby.” Ruth laughs and swats him away, but she’s blushing, and Stiles sees them slipping up to their room later, both giggling.

Stiles tucks the letter under his pillow, just like he does with the next four that arrive in quick succession. They’ve obviously been written over a series of weeks and been held hostage by the postal service. When he finally gets to talk to Peter a month later, he holds them up. “You’re such a sap. I love these. I felt like you were here with me.”

Peter tries to pretend it was no big deal, but Stiles can tell he’s pleased. “It felt like I was talking to you when I wrote them. It stopped me pining for you.”

“Are you back where I can reach you now?” Stiles asks, ever hopeful.

“Mostly. We aren’t going anywhere too far off the beaten track.”  
“You’ll call right? I mean, it’s almost summer vacation, so it doesn’t matter if you wake me.” After a beat he adds, “But the letters were nice, too. You could write me more of those.”  
Peter laughs. “Of course, pup.”

And he does, too. Stiles gets a letter once a week, or sometimes none for three weeks and then three all bundled together. He keeps them all, and when he’s missing his wolf too much he drags them out along with a map of Australia, finding the places Peter’s talking about, following his path with a shorn off fingertip as he reads.

 

* * *

 

He spends his summer holidays goofing off with Scott and Kira, and training with Derek. It’s hot, so Derek decides they need to add swimming to their routine instead of running, and Stiles finds he likes losing himself in the repetitive motion of it, stroke after stroke, lap after lap. He doesn't have a hope in hell of keeping up with Derek, but Stiles doesn’t really mind. It’s something new, an escape from the heat and the boredom of the day.

He’s starting to hear from Peter more regularly, and it eases the tension that’s been building up inside him. The phone calls normally end up encompassing the rest of the pack, with the handset being passed around willy nilly as everyone tries to catch up, but Stiles is always the one who gets to say the final goodbye.

Peter tells him that even though it’s technically winter where he is in the Northern Territory, you’d never know it. “God, I can’t wait for cold weather again,” he sighs.

“How long till you’re back?” Stiles knows the answer, but he asks anyway.

“Still the first week of December, sweetheart. Nothing’s changed. But August’s nearly gone already.”

“Three months.We can do three months.” Stiles recites it like a mantra.

“We can, sweetheart.” Peter’s voice comes through the speakers, but his image freezes and flickers annoyingly.

Stiles sighs. “You’re dropping out again.”

He gets snatches of Peter’s voice, and maybe ten seconds of him on screen, all out of sync. He hears, “Have to – can’t see – miss you, pup – “ before the connection drops out completely.

“Miss you too,” he whispers at the black screen, and trusts in his heart that somehow, Peter will know it.

 

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t have time to miss Peter the last two weeks of September, because he’s busy consoling Scott. Kira met her soulmate, and broke up with Scott immediately. “It’s not fair, though,” Scott sniffles for maybe the hundredth time. "Not everyone has a soulmate. Why couldn’t we have just been happy together?”

“It wasn’t meant to be, Scotty. Better to find out now than later, right?” Stiles soothes for the hundred and first time. He runs a hand comfortingly over Scott’s shoulders, and hands him another slice of cake. Ruth’s baking might not fix Scott’s heartbreak, but it helps at least a little, in Stiles’s experience. He feels bad for Scott, but at the same time he knows Scott will have to accept it and move on.

“It still sucks. You’re lucky – at least you know you and Peter are meant to be together.”  Scott taps a finger on the name engraved at Stiles’s wrist. Stiles stops to consider what Scott’s said. He has to admit, there have been times when he’s thought knowing who his soulmate is so young was some kind of punishment, where he felt he was missing out somehow. But looking at Scott, watching him reassemble his shattered heart, (because Scott never did do things by halves, and he’d fallen _hard_ for Kira), Stiles revises his opinion. Peter’s older, and it’s difficult, and the waiting’s no fun, but at the same time, he _knows_ Peter, inside and out. They’ve had a long time to learn each other’s quirks, and he knows that in the future he’ll appreciate that fact. Peter’s _his._ He’s never had to doubt that, and he’s suddenly very grateful.

He tells Peter about it when he skypes the next night.  “It’s like, I thought I was missing something, but all I’m missing is being miserable and getting dumped. I’m glad you came to help me when I was six.”

Peter laughs.“Sweetheart, you were yelling loudly enough to wake the dead. I could hardly ignore you. And I’m glad, too.”

“Nine weeks, right?”

“Eight weeks and four days, but who’s counting?” Peter’s smile broadens as he speaks. They have a decent connection for once, and it’s a Friday night, so Stiles stays up late, talking and laughing. It’s Peter who ends the call when he sees Stiles yawning. “Go to bed, sweetheart. We’re going bush tomorrow, so I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”

“ _Going bush._ Listen to you, sounding all Australian,” Stiles teases.

“Too right, mate,’ Peter shoots back. He mangles the accent completely, but it still makes Stiles snort with laughter.

Eight weeks, four days. He can do that.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, Australians don’t do Halloween, not like other countries. Peter reports that it’s starting to pick up popularity, but it’s hit and miss, depending on where you are. Stiles shakes his head in disbelief, and holds up the pumpkin he’s been carving for Peter to inspect. “I wanted to do a wolf,  but it turned out wrong, so I stuck to this.” It’s a traditional jack – o -lantern face, and Peter sighs a little when he sees it.

“You’re making me homesick, pup,” he admits.

Stiles puts the pumpkin down. “It’s time you came home,” he says, his tone serious. “You can’t stay in a country that doesn’t have proper Halloween – it’s not civilized.”

Peter’s lips twitch. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. In four and a half weeks, I’ll be on that plane home.”

“You’d better be,” Stiles mock threatens. “Cause Scott’s single now you know, and I might get lonely.”

“Pup, the devil himself couldn’t stop me from making it home. I’ll be there, come hell or high water,” Peter promises blithely.

 

* * *

 

Hell doesn’t stop Peter making it home.

High water, on the other hand….

A week and before Peter’s due to fly home, one of the poorest areas of Indonesia is hit by a freak tidal wave. It’s declared a disaster area, and as soon as they hear the news, Dale and Julie call the volunteer hotline and offer their services. With their increased strength and super healing abilities, it’s standard practice for Weres and other shifters to be the first responders in cases like this. A team of supes can clear an area in hours that would normally take weeks, and it can mean the difference between life and death to those trapped in the rubble.

Peter watches the scenes unfolding on the TV screen silently. Then he stands, announcing, “I’m coming with you.”

Julie stops what she’s doing and turns her full attention to him. “You don’t have to do this, Peter. It’s not part of the job. Go home to your boy.”

Peter would love nothing better than to do just that. But there’s a child crying on the screen, calling for his parents, and damned if that doesn’t remind him of six year old Stiles, crying in the playground. He points at the TV. “How am I supposed to walk away from that, when I can help?”

Dale looks at him intently, and nods in understanding. “I’ll arrange flights. You call your folks.”

Peter’s never wanted to make a call less in his life. He does a quick calculation of time zones, and dials Tom’s number. He needs to talk to his father first. Tom picks up after the second ring. “Peter?”

“Hey, dad. I was just calling…” he trails off, wishing he wasn’t doing this and knowing he has to. He tries again. “There’s been a tsunami …”

Tom understands immediately. “How close are you?”

“Three hours by plane. It’s Indonesia.” 

“Hold on, son.” Peter hears the sound of keys tapping, knows his father’s looking on the internet for details. He hears a muttered, “ _goddammit_ ,” and then his dad’s back on the line. “It’s bad, you’re right. They need the help. Want me to break it to Stiles?”

“No, I’ll talk to him. It’s just, I don’t know how long it’s going to be for, and I know he was excited.” _Take care of him for me_ goes unspoken.

“I’ll get him for you now. And Peter? He’ll understand that you have to go.” Peter hears the sound of Tom calling for Stiles, and squeezes his eyes tightly closed, taking a calming breath. Soon enough he hears the clatter of feet, and Tom telling Stiles, “Peter’s on the line.”

“Peter!” Stiles can’t conceal the excitement in his voice, and Peter feels his gut twist. “I can’t believe you’re home next week!” Peter calls home often enough now that it’s not unusual for him to call on Tom’s number, so Stiles has no inkling of what Peter’s about to drop on him. Peter’s been silent for too long. “Peter? Are you there?”

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he answers faintly.

“Peter, what’s wrong? You sound weird. What’s going on?”

Peter manages to get out, “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, but there’s an emergency. A flood. A whole town…I can help.” He knows that Stiles will understand what that he's saying.

There’s silence, and then he hears, “But – but  you’re supposed to be coming home.”

“I know, pup. I wish I could, but people need me.”

“ _I need you!_ ” Stiles bursts out. “When is it _my turn_ to come first, Peter? _”_

Peter’s shocked by the ferocity of Stile’s response, but he still tries to explain. “Sweetheart, you know I’d rather be coming home to you – “

“I can’t talk to you right now.” There’s a click, and the line goes dead. Peter stares at the phone while he processes the fact that Stiles _hung up on him._

He’s still staring when the phone lights up with his dad’s number. Peter answers. “He’s pretty upset,” Tom says before Peter can ask. “He hung up so you wouldn't hear him crying. I’ll get him to call you back once he has himself under control, okay?”

“He hates me, dad.”

“He doesn’t hate you, but he is devastated. And can you honestly blame him?”

“No,” Peter sighs. “I’m pretty gutted myself.”

“Exactly. Give him a few hours, and call back. Talk to him before you fly out.”

“I will, assuming he’ll take my call.”

“He will. I’ll make sure of it,” Tom promises. “I’ll play the alpha card if he won’t.”

Then his dad asks for details of where he’s going, and when they’re leaving, and Peter has no idea, so he hands the phone over to Dale, who does. Peter walks over to Julie and drops his head onto her shoulder, groaning. She pats him sympathetically on the shoulder. “That bad?”  Peter just groans again.

Dale’s finished to talking to Tom, and hands the phone back to Peter.

“Is there anything you need, son?”

“I- I just need you to make sure Stiles is okay, Dad. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. If I miss Christmas, can you make sure he still has a good time?”

“You leave your boy to me. We’ve taken good care of him so far, haven’t we?”

It hits Peter like a punch to the gut exactly how much time he’s spent apart from Stiles, and he almost cancels the whole thing then and there. But his eye catches the news footage still playing, and he can hear the cries of the people trapped under the remains of a building. He has to go. He just hopes Stiles will forgive him.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, Peter gets a message. **Skype?**

He’s in the middle of packing, and his flight leaves in an hour. But he still doesn’t hesitate to open his laptop and log in. Stiles connects a moment later. His eyes are red rimmed, and Peter feels like an absolute heel. But Stiles’s voice is steady. “I looked it up. It’s bad, isn’t it? People are dying.” Peter nods, not sure what to say.

“How…how long?”

“I don’t know. Weeks at least. I won’t know till we get there. I’m so sorry, pup. I wanted to come home, I swear.”

Stiles’s voice is rough. “Just…don’t.” He huffs out a breath. “I’m mad you’re not coming home. I’m not mad at _you,_ but I’m still mad. Don’t ask me to be happy about this.”

“I’m hardly thrilled myself, pup. But somebody has to go. There was this little boy…” Peter tells Stiles about seeing the five-year-old crying for his parents, about how his first thought had been of Stiles at the same age, and how he knew then that he had to help if he could. As he explains, Stiles’s expression softens.

“I get it. It honestly sucks, but I mean, I haven’t lost my family in a flood, so really, what do I have to complain about?” He makes a shooing gesture. “Go save the world, asshole.”

Peter kisses the tips of his fingers and places them carefully on the screen where Stiles’ lips are. “ I’ll be back as soon as I can, sweetheart.”

Stiles blows him a kiss back, and a resigned expression settles on his face. “I know you probably can’t, but if you can, let me know you’re safe, okay?”

“I will. I don’t know when I’ll see you next, but when I do, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Yeah well, you’d better. You can buy me a kitten,” Stiles declares.

Peter arches an unbelieving brow. “ A _cat_. In a houseful of wolves. The poor thing would live in a constant state of terror. The scent alone would terrify it.”

Stiles shrugs. “You never know. Cats are pretty badass. I bet it would be ruling the place inside a week.”

Pete snorts. “We’re not getting you a kitten, Stiles.”

“Fiiine. You can get me another puppy instead. I’m gonna go tell Alpha you said I’m allowed another dog.  See ya!” And with that he logs off. Peter’s so thrown by Stiles’s declaration that he’s getting another dog that he doesn’t realize till  later that Stiles successfully distracted him from any sort of emotional goodbye.

That devious little shit.

 

* * *

 

Stiles closes his laptop and drops his head down onto the table with a thunk. He lets the tears he’s been holding back flow, now that Peter’s not able to see him. Part of him wishes that just this once, Peter would be a selfish asshole.  But he knows at his core that what Peter’s doing is right, which is why he’s plastered on a brave face. He’s dimly aware of a pair of arms circling him, and then he hears Ruth’s voice in his ear. “Come on, sweetheart.”  She picks him up just like she used to when he was six, curling him against her chest and carrying him up the stairs.

When they get to his room she sits on the bed with him and listens to him rant and wail about how unfair it is and how it sucks, and he hopes Peter has a really terrible trip and catches something nasty, maybe some sort of dysentery. He knows he’s being dramatic, and he doesn’t care. Ruth holds him through it, doesn’t tell him he’s overreacting, just makes soothing noises while he gets it out of his system. When he finally calms down, all she says is, “Werewolves can’t get dysentery, Stiles.”

“Well, something, anyway. Mosquito bites, maybe,” he mumbles. ”Selfless jerk, thinking of other people before me.”

Even as the words leave his mouth he hears how petty and selfish they sound. But Ruth just strokes his hair. “I know, right? That awful son of mine, going off helping people instead of coming home to his mother.”

It strikes Stiles then that he’s not the only one who’s been affected by this. He tilts his face up towards Ruth. “Can we be pissed at him together?”

Ruth considers it. “Maybe we can settle for missing him, while also plotting how to make him pay when he gets back. Personally, I’m planning to have him landscape the whole backyard. In summer.”

“Peter _hates_ gardening.”

“Oh, I know he does.”

Stiles lets out a wet laugh. “I told him I want another dog.”

Ruth laughs at that, and places a kiss on Stiles’s forehead before tilting his chin up so he’s facing her. “It won’t be forever, Stiles. He’ll be home before you know it.”

Stiles leans into her side, and hopes she’s right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I promise they're reunited next chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's coming home.

 

Tom gets a text from Dale telling him they’ve arrived in Indonesia safely, and that’s it. There’s radio silence. John relents and lets Stiles skip school when he sees the dark rings under his eyes, and Stiles is beyond grateful. He’s been talking about Peter coming back for weeks, and he can’t face the thought of having to say the words “He’s not coming home yet,” aloud. It’s not that he thinks his friends will be mean about it – it’s just the opposite. He doesn’t think he can cope with the sympathetic looks they’ll give him – if anyone treats him too nicely, he’ll break down.

Ruth, luckily, seems to understand. When she comes downstairs to find him still in his pajamas on the third day, clicking through the tv channels morosely, she takes the remote from him and turns it off. “Since you’re home, you can make yourself useful,” she tells him briskly. “We’re cleaning out the pantry.”

Stiles knows better than to argue. The pantry is a huge thing, built to hold food for a pack of wolves, and Ruth’s only tiny, barely over five feet, so she shamelessly takes advantage of Stiles’s longer arms to get into all the back corners of the higher shelves, ditching the old packets of spices and expired crackers that are lurking there. She catches him checking his phone once or twice, and shakes her head. “Don’t torture yourself, Stiles. You know they’re out of contact.” He knows she’s right, and in the end,  he leaves his phone in the dining room so he won’t be tempted.

Ruth gets him a stepladder so he can reach right in the back and wipe all the shelves down.  It takes them most of the day, and Stiles finds himself grateful for the distraction. When they’ve finished, he gets that deeply satisfied feeling of a job well done, and Ruth reaches up and wraps her arms around his neck. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“S’all right, Mama Ruth.” He’s tall enough that he can place a kiss on top of her head. He doesn’t mind standing there with her surveying their handiwork, is glad of the physical contact, and he’s pretty sure she feels the same.

She lets him go and shoos him off to the shower. Once he’s cleaned the dust and sweat off, Stiles flicks open his laptop and searches for news coverage of the disaster. He doesn’t know why he’s even looking, but some sort of morbid curiosity drives him to it. He’s been watching the footage for a while when he sees it.  There’s a story about volunteers digging people out of the rubble, and there on the screen is Peter, lifting a slab of concrete and holding it up while a woman scrambles out of the opening. Stiles stares in shock, watching as Peter shoves the concrete aside like it weighs nothing and moves more rubble out of the way. Peter has dirt streaking his shoulders and face, the singlet he’s wearing is marked and stained, his hair’s a flyaway mess, and his expression is determined. Stiles thinks he’s never looked better in his life.

“Mama Ruth! Peter!” he calls, and she joins him seconds later. They watch the news story avidly, and Stiles can’t deny the relief he feels at the tangible evidence that Peter’s there, and he’s safe. He hits replay, and they watch it again. And again. When Tom gets home, Stiles plays it for him, and when John arrives he gets to watch it too.

Every time Stiles replays the news clip, he gets prouder of Peter for what he’s doing. When he sees the expression of sheer relief of the face of the woman who’s made it out, he can’t help but smile, just a little. When he goes to bed that night, he sleeps better than he has all week, just from the knowledge that Peter’s okay.

 

* * *

 

December crawls along, and Stiles can’t find it in himself to be excited for Christmas. Every time he catches a glimpse of the gifts he’d bought for Peter, wrapped and tucked in the back of his closet, his heart sinks a little. This will be their first Christmas apart. He’d hoped Peter would be back, but he hasn’t heard anything, and his hopes are slowly fading. In the end, on December twentieth, he bundles the gifts up into a box and hands it to Derek. “Keep these at your place? I can’t look at them.”

Derek nods in understanding and sits the box on the floor next to him. They’re hanging out with Scott, half watching a Christmas movie, and working their way through Laura’s failed gingerbread house – it tastes delicious, but the construction work leaves a lot to be desired, so Derek had liberated it and brought it over to share. Scott eyes the box up, and with all the tact of a fourteen-year-old, says, “So you still haven’t heard? That must really suck.”

“Yep.” Stiles hopes that his terse reply will discourage Scott, because he really doesn’t need a reminder of just how much this does suck.

Scott however, persists. “Wow. It’s been weeks. It might be months before he’s back!”

“Yep.” Stiles moves instinctively closer to Derek, who runs a hand through his hair and glares at Scott.

“I mean, he could be dead and you wouldn’t know it,” Scott babbles on. Stiles stiffens and Scott yelps as Derek kicks him, _hard._ “What was that for? I’m just saying!”

“Well, _don’t_ ,” Derek hisses, glaring even harder. He turns his attention to Stiles, who’s gone slightly pale.

“He’s right though, Der. Anything could happen and I wouldn’t know.” Stiles can feel the panic rising in his chest, but then Derek’ s there right in front of him, a hand on each shoulder as he tells him, “Breathe, Stiles. Scott’s talking out his ass right now.” He shoots Scott another filthy look. Stiles takes one breath, then another, and fights down the lump that’s lodged in his throat at the thought of Peter dead or injured.

“Stiles listen to me. Peter must be fine, or you would have felt it through the bond. Remember how he came home when you took your fingertip off, because he knew something was wrong? Remember that first year of college when you could feel something wasn’t right?” Stiles nods. “Have you felt anything like that?” Stiles shakes his head. He hasn’t felt any kind of distress. “Then that means he’s okay,” Derek says decisively, and shoves Scott off the end of the couch for good measure.

Scott flails and squawks, muttering “Not cool, Derek,” as he scrambles to get up. It makes Stiles laugh, and Derek grins at him.  Stiles knows that’s probably why he did it. They settle back to watching the movie, but Derek refuses to give Scott anymore gingerbread, holding it out of reach. Stiles knows he could intervene and insist that Derek share, but really, he thinks it’s a fair penalty for Scott making him panic like that.

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas itself is a good day. Stiles has the rest of the family and pack there, Melissa and Scott as well, and he’s almost able to forget the gaping hole left by Peter’s absence. It’s only when he gets into bed that night that the ache of loneliness returns, On impulse he pulls out his phone and sends Peter a text saying **Merry Christmas. I miss you**

Delivery fails.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek is a sadist, Stiles decides. Nobody should be up at 6 am running a trail in the preserve on New Year’s day, and definitely not with a grinning werewolf badgering them to _go faster, Stiles_. He refuses to admit how much he enjoys the endorphin rush from running till he feels like he’ll drop, and he grumbles the whole way. Derek just beams at him, and Stiles know he’s not fooled at all. Derek's his favorite person right now, even if he sort of hates him at this very second.

Stiles knows that it’s hard for Ruth and Tom, not hearing from their son, and he doesn’t want to make it harder on them by going to them when he’s upset.  And his dad’s been great, letting Stiles pour out his worries to him, but he’s also busy – there’s flu going round and he’s down three staff right now, is working himself into the ground covering the extra shifts.

So Derek? Derek’s become Stiles’s rock. He misses Peter too, but he’s removed enough that it doesn’t upset him when Stiles comes to him with all the _‘what if’_ scenarios that play in his head. He’s a strong pair of arms that Stiles can lean into whenever he needs it, and he’s expert at getting Stiles out of his slumps, dragging him out of the house and insisting that he not turn into a hermit. It’s Derek who will come by and close the laptop when Stiles has spent too long on the internet researching exactly how long it takes to rebuild after a flood like this and depressing himself. But it’s also Derek who will send him links to news footage that has four seconds of the back of Peter’s head and muscled shoulders, and when he turns his head, just a hint of his profile.

Stiles knows his family are worried about him. He’s quieter than normal, and when school goes back he doesn’t throw himself into his social life like he usually does. He doesn’t have the heart for it. Scott still comes over, but he’s learned his lesson it seems, because he pointedly doesn’t mention Peter’s absence. Stiles suspects Derek had something to do with that as well, from the unsure looks Scott throws Derek’s way every time Scott opens his mouth.

Derek’s the one who reassures Stiles when the news coverage drops off in mid-January that it’s normal – as soon as there’s a new disaster. the old one isn’t newsworthy.  Stiles has a tiny breakdown at that, burying his face in Derek‘s shoulder. “Great. I can’t even look for him on the news, now. It feels like I’m never going to see him again, and all I’ll have is this _stupid damn name_ on my wrist!”

Derek pulls away enough to lift Stiles’s hand and look at his mark. “Hmmm. Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. If he’s not back in six months, I’ll be your soulmate. We can get that name altered no problem – I know a tattoo guy. It’ll be cool. People will call us Sterek.”

Stiles snorts at that, forgetting that he’s mad. “I’m fourteen, Derek. I’m not allowed tattoos.”

Derek shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to wait for Peter then. But if you change your mind, let me know. _Sterek,_ ” he intones. “Sounds good, right?”

Stiles is almost tempted. Almost. But he shakes his head. “Sorry, but I think I’m a Steter.”

Derek laughs, and ruffles Stiles’s hair. “I know, kid. I know.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles clings to the fact that he can’t feel distress through the soulmate bond, and as January crawls into February he holds tight to the old adage _No news is good news,_ even though he secretly thinks it should be _No news is bullshit_.

He finds a diversion in pursuing his rock climbing. After Derek and Tom watched him scale the smaller walls easily, they decided to test him out on the intermediate climbs, which are a lot more challenging. The harder course is both his best friend and his worst enemy as he tries to work his way through the levels, Derek coaching him through it when they become more difficult and hanging onto the safety rope for him. More than once Stiles has to be lowered on the ropes after he misses his hold and swings wildly in midair, laughing breathlessly. Sometimes he misses on purpose, just for the adrenaline rush, and to see the betrayed look Derek shoots him when he’s suddenly left supporting the weight of Stiles’s swaying body as he grumbles, “Warn a guy, Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

 

A side effect of Derek dragging him out of the house to torture him with exercise is that Stiles starts to muscle up properly. He’s not bulky like Derek is, but his arms become strong and corded, his legs too. He gains another couple of inches in height, and is now barely an inch shorter than Derek, resulting in all his shirts and pants not fitting.

He comes out of school one day to find Laura and Derek parked at the kerb, waiting for him. “Get in loser, we’re going shopping,” Laura calls out. Stiles gets in the car, and as they pull out Laura says over her shoulder, “You need something that fits, and we volunteered.”

“Dad normally takes me to Target.”

“We know, Stiles, we know. But he’s working, and we’re gonna take the chance to get you some _decent_ clothes.” Laura flashes him a smile that makes him distinctly nervous, especially with the way Derek’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. He wonders what the hell they’re planning on dressing him in.

His fears turn out to be unfounded, though. First Laura and Derek feed him as they tell him that they have his dad’s credit card and a budget, and they plan to spend every cent of it, on John’s orders. Apparently, his dad’s also had enough of Stiles _looking like a goddam hobo_ in clothes that don’t fit him.

Laura takes charge, dragging Stiles into places he’d never normally set foot, into _menswear_ shops, and she’s ruthless in her determination to get him wearing what she calls proper clothes. She rifles through the racks and thrusts armfuls of jeans and shirts at him before sending him off to the change rooms.

Every single shirt she chose is too small across the shoulders, making her frown. Derek laughs, and tells her, “Look again, Laur. Stiles isn’t a beanpole anymore.” He then unerring picks half a dozen shirts and tees in the right size. Stiles beams at the acknowledgement, and goes back to trying things on. It’s way more fun than it normally is with his dad, and he finds himself getting caught up in the whole thing, especially when the saleslady, when she realises they intend on making a sizable purchase, gets in on the game, bringing him brightly colored skinny jeans, giving advice, and putting together combos for him.

The jeans are tighter than he’s used to, but they look good. The tees are fitted, and he pairs them with overshirts because _“It’s practically winter, Laura.”_ He buys a couple of plaid shirts just to spite her, but the rest of them are plain, because he has to admit, they do look good. And when he looks in the mirror, he’s pleased to see that he doesn’t look like a kid anymore. He adds a couple of jackets and some socks and underwear, and presents the pile to Derek, who nods approvingly.

He thinks they’re done, but then Derek takes him to the sporting store, where he gets singlets and basketball shorts and sweats and a new set of climbing shoes, and most importantly, climbing gloves. “These ones have extra grip, since Stumpy makes it hard for you on some of the walls.” Stiles grins as he takes the gloves – it’s a sad fact that the missing fingertip does make it more of a challenge, but this will definitely help.

“We done?” he asks, hoping the answer’s yes.

Laura shakes her head, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Shoes, dress pants and shirts for date nights when Peter gets back, haircut.”

“My hair’s fine,” Stiles argues.

Your hair’s not fine. I’m taking you to my barber,” Derek states. Stiles thinks about arguing, but Derek really does have great hair.

First though, he checks. “Haven’t we spent enough?” It seems to him that they’ve spent an awful lot, far more than he and his Dad usually do on their Target runs.

“Not even close,” Derek tells him. “There’s plenty left to make you pretty.” Stiles pouts at being called pretty and punches Derek in the arm, only to swear and shake his hand a moment later. He should know better than to hit a werewolf.

The dress pants and shirts are quick – Stiles is easy to make look good, the shop assistant tells him earnestly. Her flattery’s effective enough that somehow Stiles walks out of there with four pairs of pants, five shirts, a nice jacket and an honest to god tie. Shoes are next - his feet have grown as well. They hit the converse store, and Stiles doesn’t need any help there at all. After that it’s the barber, who tugs Stiles’s head side to side and hums for a moment. “Nice hair. Yes, I can work with this.” Stiles eyes his shaggy mop doubtfully in the mirror.

The man chats idly as he tilts Stiles’s head this way and that, snipping and thinning and feathering and trimming away the thick bulk, until finally he nods, satisfied. He runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair, checking the length, making one or two adjustments before grabbing a pot of styling wax. “I don’t use product,” Stiles tries.

“You do now,” Derek says firmly. “Product is your friend. You think I wake up looking like this?”

The barber rubs the waxy substance between his hands and works it through Stiles’s hair and...oh. Suddenly, his nondescript cut is an actual _style._ It comes up in the front a little, and it’s tousled just right, and as the man continues to tweak at it, Stiles can see himself smiling at his reflection. Somehow that handful of wax has made him look _good,_ far better than he ever has before. He briefly thinks that he can’t wait to show Peter, and then ruthlessly stamps on that thought.

He’s not going to think about Peter right now and ruin what’s been a perfectly good day. He hasn’t heard anything , has no idea when he’ll see or hear from Peter again. These days, he does his best not to think about it.

 

* * *

 

What Stiles doesn’t know is this.

Peter’s coming home. He’s actually on his way right that second.

He’s spent eleven weeks in Indonesia, and at first it was digging people out of the rubble, seeing their faces as they crawled out into the daylight, being hugged and cried on by the survivors and their families. He doesn’t regret coming, not for one second, simply because he got to experience that.  But it’s hard. Their accommodation is a tent. It’s hot and humid and there are no nice warms showers or comfortable beds. And it seems that every day there’s more to do, another crisis where they need him, and he sometimes despairs of ever being able to go home, because this could take years to rebuild, and how can he possibly leave when it’s like this?

But he misses his family, misses Stiles like it’s a physical ache. There’s no cell phone reception, electricity’s sporadic, and the communication channels that are open are all tied up with rescue and recovery operations, and Peter hardly feels he can stroll up and ask if he could please call his boyfriend. By the time the last week of February rolls around, he’s done.

He does his best to hide it, but he must not do as well as he thinks, because Dale pulls him aside. “Peter, do me a favor?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

Dale hands him a plane ticket. “I need you to go home.”

“But – “

“No buts. As your Alpha, I’m telling you, you need to go. You’re done here.” He stares Peter down, and Peter bows his head in submission. Dale continues, “You fly out tomorrow morning. It’s a nightmare flight home, about six connections and a six hour layover in Perth, but it’s the best I could do at short notice.”

Peter blinks. Tomorrow. He’s going home tomorrow. He gets a lump in his throat, and feels tears of relief threaten. “I need to call them.”

Dale pulls him in for a rough hug, and Peter does start crying then. “We’ll call them. You’ve done an amazing job, but it’s time for you to go. I know there’s a certain young man who’s probably pining like hell right now.”

Peter laughs wetly into Dale’s shoulder. “He’s not the only one.” Dale tilts his head slightly and Peter scents him unashamedly, drawing comfort from his Alpha scent. They stand there for long minutes, until Peter regains his composure.

Dale takes him to the communications tent where he calls his dad. Tom’s thrilled of course, and relieved. Peter can hear it in his voice. When he hears what Peter’s flight plan is though, Tom declares, “We won’t tell Stiles you’re coming.” Peter wrestles with the idea, because he wants to call Stiles right then and tell him he’s on his way, but his dad disagrees. “ Just imagine if you tell him and you get delayed. I don’t think he could take it, poor kid. You want to take that chance?” 

Peter hates that his Dad’s right, but some of his connecting flights are cutting it awfully fine, and there’s actually every chance he’ll miss one of them. He doesn’t want to do that to Stiles. He hasn’t spoken to him in nearly three months, hasn’t seen him in person for close to a year. The last thing he wants is for their reunion to be marred by something stupid. “That makes sense,” he finally replies. “It’ll be a surprise.”

“Seen you in a couple of days. Missed you son, but I’m proud of you. Your mother too – she’s standing here grinning like a damn fool. If anyone lets the secret out it’ll be her.” Peter smiles at the thought of seeing his Mom.

He’s going home.

 

* * *

  


Tom hangs up the phone and turns to Ruth and John, who are in the office with him. The three adults are all smiling broadly, and Tom thinks to himself if they keep this a secret it’ll be a damned miracle.  John breaks the silence. “You know, I think it’s time Stiles went shopping. Kid looks like a damn hobo right now, everything’s too small, but I just haven’t had time to take him.”

Tom nods in agreement. “Derek and Laura can take him. Style him up a little. Kid’s getting older, John. Target’s not gonna cut it for him. We want him to look good.”

John nods his agreement. ”Not gonna lie, I have no idea about this stuff – if I’m not in uniform, I’m in my jeans. But it’ll be nice, get him looking a little more grown up.” _For Peter_ remains unsaid.

They scheme together, figuring out the logistics of getting Stiles out of the house so Peter will have a chance to recover from his flight, spend some time with his parents, and clean up before Stiles knows he’s back. Ruth insists that she and Tom get Peter for at least half an hour before to scent mark Peter properly before Stiles steals him away, because as she says with a happy sigh, “They’re going to be inseparable, aren’t they?”

“Yep. Don’t expect to see hide nor hair of either of them for at least a week.” Tom’s smile matches Ruth’s.

They’re all just romantics at heart who want to see their kids happy - so sue them.

 

* * *

 

 

Dale and Julie have arranged his transport to the airport, a long, sometimes terrifying bus ride, and then it’s flight after flight after flight. Peter makes every single connection, even though it means running through Sydney Airport bellowing _“Hold the flight! Hold the flight!”_ at the top of his lungs as he sprints to make it. He gets there, barely, sweaty and gasping for breath, to be met by an amused look from the attendant.  She brings him a bottle of water as soon as he’s seated. “Couldn’t miss it, huh?”

Between gulps of water, Peter manages “Going home. Been in Indonesia. Soulmate’s waiting.”

“Indonesia? The tsunami?” Peter nods silently, still breathless. Even for a Were, it was a hell of a sprint. The attendant disappears for a moment and Peter sees her whispering with another attendant before coming back. “Sir, we’d like to upgrade you to business class, as a thank you for your efforts in the rescue.”

Peter doesn’t even make a token objection. “That,” he tells her sincerely, “Would be heavenly.”

He spends the fourteen-hour flight stretched out in a recliner, being served champagne and canapes and a decent meal that he has a hard time believing is airline food, and then, snuggled underneath a soft throw rug, he sleeps most of the flight away, a better sleep than he’s had in months. 

After being woken for a surprisingly good breakfast and fed several cups of coffee, Peter’s in reasonable shape when his plane lands. He expects Customs to be slow, but when they see where he’s been, they wave him through immediately. He makes his way out to the arrivals lounge, and there are his parents, both waiting for him with outstretched arms. He dives into his Mom’s arms, and she wraps herself around him. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe you’re finally home!”

Next is his dad, who holds him tight and scents him, while Peter scents him back before exposing his throat, putting himself back under Tom’s authority. Tom holds him longer than is strictly necessary, and Peter soaks up the attention. Dale and Julie were good to him, he couldn’t have asked for a better temporary Alpha, but Tom’s _his_ Alpha. “Missed you, Dad.”

“Missed you too. Let’s get your bags and get you home. Derek’s taken Stiles out, so you can shower and nap if you need to.”

“Slept on the plane – they upgraded me to business class,” Peter grins.  His mother drags him in for another hug, unable to hold back. Peter doesn’t object. It’s only when he’s in the car that he asks, “So, did Stiles forgive me?” He tries to play it off as flippant, but he’s not sure he succeeds.

Tom tells him gruffly, “Not sure. Your mother and he were plotting your downfall for a while there.“ Ruth swats Tom lightly on the arm before taking pity on Peter and reassuring him that Stiles will be thrilled to see him, missed him incredibly, and isn’t holding any grudges. Peter lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He didn’t really think Stiles would be mad at him, but he’d been prepared in case he was, willing to do what ever it takes to get back in his good graces.  Now that Stiles is within reach, he’s desperate to see him, but at the same time he’s not ready. Ten months is a long time, and he’s unaccountably nervous.

They get home and drag all his luggage inside and into his room, where he looks at the freshly made bed longingly. An actual bed is something he’s been dreaming about. He runs a hand over the pillow, but shakes his head. If he lies down now, that will be the end of him, and he knows that Stiles definitely won’t forgive him if he falls asleep without telling him he’s home. _Home._ Peter  smiles to himself at the knowledge that he’s made it back.

After taking a shower and putting on fresh clothes, Peter goes downstairs to find his parents waiting for him on the couch, with a spot in the middle that’s obviously for him. “Before you go find your boy, we want some time with you,” Tom tells him. Peter slots in between them and tilts his head back, allowing them access to his throat. His parents nuzzle and nip at him, marking him as pack again, their wolves welcoming him home, and Peter closes his eyes and soaks up the scent of them. He makes no effort to move, just revels in it.

Eventually, Ruth nudges him. “Peter, sweetheart? Are you awake?”

“Mmmm. Just enjoying you both being here.”

“You can enjoy it later. But I’m guessing you want to see your boy?”

Peter’s eyes snap open, and he can feel a smile spreading across his face. “Please.”

Tom hands him his car keys. “They’re at the gym.” 

Peter turns the keys over in his hand. He’s desperate to go, of course he is, but – “You don’t mind?”

Tom laughs. “Son, we’ve kept you to ourselves for an hour already. It’s fine. Go.”

Peter blinks – an hour? It barely feels like ten minutes have passed. He shakes his head and after one more kiss, one more hug, he heads out. He has to laugh at himself when he walks to the right-hand side of the car, only to find himself at the passenger door. Oh, right. He gets in and drives extra carefully to the gym, making sure he stays on the right side of the road. Now that he’s finally going to see Stiles, he can’t wait, and he can’t help but think how ironic it would be if he was run off the road.

He makes it safely, and walks into the gym, looking around. He can see a few people around working out, but none of them are Stiles. He spots Derek at the bottom of the climbing wall, calling out encouragement to a leanly muscled teenager wearing a tight tank top and shorts who’s climbing steadily upwards. Peter’s eyes glidee over the young man as he looks in vain for Stiles, but then the teenager slips, and Peter hears, ”Goddamit Derek, I _told_ you, this one’s too hard!”

His eyes snap back to the source of the voice, and he has to stop where he is and take a breath, because that leanly muscled teenager is Stiles, and how is it that Peter almost didn’t recognise him? He stares, spellbound by the corded forearms and muscular calves, the long legs and lithe body, the sheer height of his boy.   _Stiles grew up_ , his brain informs him helpfully.  He’s still staring when Derek spots him and shoots him a wave. Peter puts a finger to his lips and sneaks forwards silently to where Stiles is lowering himself down the wall. Stiles still hasn’t looked down, all his concentration on making it down safely. As his feet hit the ground, Peter steps up behind him and wraps a possessive arm around his waist. Stiles flails at the unexpected contact, and Peter leans in and murmurs, “Miss me, pup?”

Stiles stills in his arms. “Peter?” His voice cracks, and it holds such longing, such _hope_ , that Peter silently vows to never leave his boy like this again.

Peter turns Stiles so they’re facing and leans in, touching their foreheads together. “I’m home, sweetheart.” Stiles stares at him for a second, and then his face splits into a delighted grin before he wraps his arms around Peter tight and clings on like he’ll never let go. At the contact, Peter shudders with the overwhelming feeling of _yesgoodhomemine._ “You sneaky asshole!  Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Stiles demands.

“Nice to see you too, pup. I wasn’t sure when I’d get here, and I didn’t want to disappoint you.” Peter ducks his head into the crook of Stiles’s neck and inhales, unable to resist. Stiles smells sweaty and pungent, like he’s been working hard, and Peter finds himself rumbling in contentment. It’s all the usual threads of aroma that make up the scent of Stiles, but they’ve changed somehow, deepened and lost that childish sweetness, maturing into something tantalizing and delicious. Peter inhales again, and Stiles laughs. “Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in nearly a year and the first thing you do is sniff me?”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Peter says, not sorry at all. Happiness is rolling off Stiles in waves right now, and mixed with the other smells, it makes Peter want to lock Stiles in a room somewhere and soak in his scent.  He does the next best thing – he lifts his head from the crook of Stiles’s neck and drags him in for a kiss. He takes his time, kissing Stiles deeply, properly - relearning the shape of his mouth, the taste of him, the tiny sounds he makes when Peter presses his tongue into Stiles’s mouth. Peter suddenly wants more - still wants to lock Stiles away, yes, but now he wants to be locked away with him, possibly naked, definitely undisturbed, for a week, a month, a year.

The moment’s broken when someone whistles and calls out, “Aw yeah, Stiles is gettin’ some!” and Peter’s forcibly reminded that they are, in fact, standing in the middle of a gym on a Saturday morning. Whoever it is, Stiles must know them, because he breaks the kiss long enough to call back “Damn right I am.”

Peter lets Stiles pull him in for another kiss, but he makes it gentle, long  languorous kisses, soft and sweet and plush lips against his. His boy tastes and smells so good, Peter could happily stay here doing this forever. It’s Stiles who breaks the kiss.  “You’re really back for good?” he asks, expression hopeful.

“Really back for good, pup.” Stiles melts into his arms and they hold each other close for a few minutes until Derek clears his throat.

“So Stiles, that mean you’re done climbing for the day?” his tone is amused, and Stiles pulls away from Peter to point suddenly at Derek. “You! You knew he was coming back! That’s why you dragged me out of the house!”

“Yep.” Derek stands there with his arms folded across his chest, grinning. “Uncle Peter, good to see you. I’ll come say hello properly later. I’m going home.” He stops on his way out the door to rub a cheek against Peter’s in a cursory scent marking, and Peter accepts it gratefully.

They watch Derek depart, and Stiles attempts to frown, but his face won’t cooperate. “ I’m so mad at you right now, just so you know.” He doesn’t smell angry, though. Peter makes a noise of inquiry, busy nuzzling at Stiles’s exposed collar bones. “I mean, if I knew you were coming I wouldn’t be all hot and sweaty and in my climbing gear. I wanted to look good for you.”

“Sweetheart, you look wonderful. I nearly didn’t recognize you.” Peter holds Stiles at arm’s length to get a proper look at him. “You’re taller than me now,” he marvels. He traces his fingertips over Stiles’s biceps. “You’ve grown up, pup. Not a boy anymore.”

“That’s what happens when you’re away for a year.”

There’s hurt there, Peter knows, and he’ll have to address it. But not here, not now. Instead he puts his hands on Stiles’s hips, pulling their bodies together as he kisses him again. It’s far filthier than it should be, but Stiles is right here, and Peter’s missed him so much. Peter promises himself he’ll rein it back in to more appropriate levels later, when he doesn’t need this quite as much. And Stiles is hardly objecting, grinding their hips together. Peter can’t help but grind back a little, and he inhales deeply, as the smell of Stiles’s arousal adds to his already heady fragrance.

But the loud clang of someone dropping a set of weights into the rack reminds Peter where exactly they are, and that they have an audience. He stills his movements, and steps back with a sigh, pointedly not looking at the erection tenting Stiles’s shorts. “Perhaps we should head home, pup.”

“Just let me shower first, I reek,” Stiles agrees, and Peter’s a little surprised that Stiles doesn’t whine and beg for more, just another sign of how he’s matured while Peter was away. Stiles heads into the locker room, and Peter steadfastly resists the urge to follow him, even though his wolf is chanting _wantwantwant_. Peter can’t have this, not yet. Stiles is still young, and even though age of consent laws aren’t applied in the case of soulmates, there are lines you don’t cross, and for soulmates, that line is clearly, albeit unofficially, shaped like the number fifteen.

Peter tells himself that they can wait six more weeks, surely. He’s an adult. He has excellent control. Stiles’s father is still the sheriff, and that’s a conversation Peter has absolutely no interest in having over dinner. He’ll keep his hands (and everything else) to himself for a little longer. It’ll be fine.

And then Stiles walks out of the locker room, still drying his hair, shirtless and with a towel wrapped around his waist, and Peter can’t help the tiny wounded sound that escapes him at the sight. Stiles appears to be made of acres of soft flesh that’s crying out to be marked, and he has muscles, and some chest hair, and there’s a drop of water trickling down his collarbone that Peter just wants to chase with his tongue. It doesn’t help that traces of semen have crept in Stiles’s scent, and Peter knows damned well he’s been jerking off in the shower.

Stiles catches the way Peter’s staring at him open-mouthed, and grins. “Forgot my clothes,” he says casually, bending over to grab a gym bag and _oh,_ Peter can hear that’s a lie, the little shit did this on purpose. Peter has to close his eyes to the sight in front of him, otherwise he’s likely to throw Stiles over his shoulder, carry him to the nearest bed, and mark that pretty skin like it deserves, at the very least.  When he opens his eyes Stiles is gone again, and Peter’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. It’s not long before Stiles reappears though, and looking at him, Peter decides that in some ways this is worse than a towel - wrapped Stiles, because his boy looks _good._

Gone are the oversized graphic tees and cargo shorts. Instead, Stiles is wearing fitted plum colored jeans, a black v necked tee, and a plaid shirt thrown over top that’s fitted to his body nicely. The sleeves are rolled up, showing off his forearms, Peter’s name dark against his wrist, a promise and an invitation. He’s done something to his hair that makes Peter want to drag his fingertips through it. He’s definitely left childhood behind. Stiles stands there for a second, arms spread. “You like? I grew out of everything else.”

“I like, pup. Let’s get you home.” Peter’s voice is hoarse with want, even to his own ears. He manages not to pin Stiles to the wall and slide his hands under the shirt and up Stiles’s back, but it’s a near thing. Instead he shoves his fists into his pockets and waits while Stiles gathers up his stuff, and they leave the gym hand in hand.

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles is woken by Derek early on Saturday morning to go climbing, he’s seriously tempted to blow him off, honestly. But Derek insists, and Stiles is feeling twitchy and unsettled, so he figures blowing off steam at the gym might help. He’s thinking about Peter more than usual, can’t get him off his mind. Even when Derek sets him up on his most difficult climb yet, Stiles can’t seem to focus.  He even thinks he sees Peter out of the corner of his eye, which is when he loses his footing.

”Goddamit Derek, I _told_ you, this one’s too hard!” he gripes, and sets about lowering himself. He doesn’t look around, focusing on rappelling down safely, and he nearly has a heart attack when he feels an arm wrap around him.

He knows instantly, endorphins flooding his body before he even hears the words  – “Miss me, pup?”

Stiles freezes. Peter’s in Indonesia. There’s no way he can be here, standing behind Stiles and holding him. Yet here he is, arm still there, and Stiles can’t help asking, checking that this is real, that he isn’t dreaming. “Peter?” He hears his voice crack, and hates himself a little for it. He told himself he’d be strong when he saw Peter again, maybe a little distant, that he’d make Peter work for his affection. But he can hear how desperate his own voice sounds.

And then Peter turns him around and is holding him, and Stiles doesn’t care that he was going to be pissed, doesn’t care that Peter shouldn’t be here, because he _is_ , he _is here_ , and Stiles is holding on for dear life. As he throws his arms around Peter’s neck, the closeness of his soulmate absolutely engulfs him like, well, a tsunami. The feelgood hormones wash over him, soaking him, running into the cracks in his soul and filling them up. Stiles imagines this is what being drunk must feel like.

Peter scents him, and Stiles teases him about it, and then Peter kisses him, kisses him _properly,_ the sort of kissing Stiles thinks about when he’s jerking off, and Stiles isn’t a wolf but he can almost smell the hunger in the air. He lets himself get lost in it, tries to cram ten months’ worth of yearning into every flick of his tongue, to make Peter understand how glad he is to have him back. If he thought he could get away with it, Stiles would pin Peter to the floor and dry hump him right now.

And then one of the guys Stiles lifts weights with catcalls them, and the moment’s broken. Stiles throws a reply at him, he couldn’t tell you what, and Derek takes his leave, and Peter’s looking at him with such affection that Stiles thinks his heart might burst right there. He tells Peter that he’s mad at him, wanted to look good when he saw him first, but Peter doesn’t seem to care, if the way his eyes travel hungrily over Stiles’s body is anything to go by. Peter tells him he’s grown, and the barb about Peter’s absence slips out, but Peter doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he pulls Stiles closer and kisses him like he never has before. Stiles’s body responds to Peter’s hands on his hips, Peter’s tongue in his mouth, to _Peter,_ and he’s hard in seconds. They grind against each other, and if Stiles is honest with himself he’s glad when something disturbs them and Peter pulls back, because he’s seconds away from coming in his pants.

Peter suggests they go home, and for once Stiles doesn’t bother objecting. He wants to get Peter where they won’t be disturbed, hopes this might lead to more, that Peter will finally see him as more than a kid. Judging by the erection pressing against his own, Stiles suspects Peter’s gotten that particular memo, but he decides to make doubly sure.

So he goes and showers, jerking off quickly, knowing Peter will be able to smell it on him, and then he wraps a towel round his waist, careful to roll the top over once, twice, making the towel shorter. He spends a few seconds making his hair look artfully messy, ensuring that he still has water trickling down his body, and saunters out into the gym on the pretext of having ‘forgotten’ his bag. The look on Peter’s face is perfect, the little sound of want he makes, the way he closes his eyes, and Stiles can see him fighting for control. Stiles smirks to himself and goes to get dressed.

Once he’s ready to go, he presents himself with a ‘ta dah’ motion, and Peter’s reaction is _deeply_ satisfying. His voice is rough with want, and his expression is hungry. Stiles extends a hand to his wolf, and takes him home.

 

* * *

 

 

Once they’re in the car, Stiles asks Peter, “So, tell me again why I didn’t know you were coming?” He’s not mad exactly, but he is curious. Now that he thinks about it, some of the pack’s odd behavior in the past few days makes sense – Ruth insisting his room needed a decent clean, his dad smiling at him randomly and biting it back, Derek dragging him out of bed on a Saturday – they all knew, and apparently decided not to tell him.

Peter sighs. “I only found out myself just before I left. And when I called Dad and he heard how close some of the connections were, that there was a chance I might miss one of the flights, he didn’t want you waiting for me if I wasn’t going to arrive. He was right, too. I came _this_ close to missing the Sydney flight.” Peter tells Stiles about sprinting the length of Sydney airport screaming, and Stiles laughs at the mental image of calm, collected Peter running like the hounds of hell were after him.  

“I guess that makes sense. And you really don’t have to go back?” He knows he’s already asked, but he can’t help but ask again.

Peter parks the car and turns to him. “Stiles, I don’t intend to be apart from you for that long ever again. I missed you so much, pup, and I know it was hard on you. I plan to spend as long as I need to making it up to you.”

Stiles takes Peter’s hand, just to feel the warmth of it. “It sucked pretty bad,” he admits. “It was not knowing if you were all right that was the hardest. But you’re home now, that’s what matters.”

Peter tilts his head for a second, listening. “It sounds like the whole pack’s waiting for us inside. You ready to go in?”

“No,” Stiles grumbles. “I want to keep you to myself.”

Peter’s smile is gentle. “Pack doesn’t work like that pup, and you know it.”

“I know. But you’re home for good now. I guess we’ll have time later.”

“As much time as we want. I’m not going anywhere,” Peter confirms, and Stiles can feel himself beaming, because _Peter’s home._

 

* * *

 

 

After hours spent with the pack, scenting and talking and laughing and being hugged hard enough to hurt by Talia and Laura and Derek, being squished between his parents, being held by John, being licked enthusiastically by the dog, but mainly, _mainly_ , being pressed close to Stiles, Peter feels himself starting to flag, and can’t help the jaw-cracking yawn that escapes him. Tom sees it, and quietly asks him, “You done, son?”

Peter opens his mouth to answer and yawns again. Tom laughs softly and pulls him close, and Peter’s eyes start to droop as he stands with his head against his Alpha’s chest. He soaks up the contact and lets it settle him – he’s awash with emotions right now, and they’re making him feel limp and satisfied in the best way, every scrap of tension leaving him as he marinates in the closeness of pack and family and _Stiles._

He doesn’t realize he’s almost asleep where he stands until he feels Tom chuckle deep in his chest, and before he knows it, Peter’s being picked up by his father and slung over his shoulder. “Haven’t done this in a long time, but it’s bed for you, pup.” Tom carries him up the stairs, Peter laughing the whole way, and deposits him on his bed. “Get some sleep, son. Your time zones are probably shot.” Peter realizes his dad’s right – his body thinks it’s 2 am. 

He sprawls out over the covers and buries his face in one of the pillows. It smells like Stiles. His dad catches the movement and quirks a brow at him. “I guess I don’t need to ask if you’d sleep better with some company?”

Peter nods sleepily, and Tom pokes his head out the door and calls “Stiles! Your boy needs company!” Peter wants to object, because _he’s_ not the boy, Stiles is, but then he hears the clatter of feet racing up the stairs, and there’s a warm body wrapped around his back and tender kisses being placed on the nape of his neck, and as he drifts off to sleep he decides that he can live with being Stiles’s boy, just this once.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter wakes to the feeling of fingers tracing down his arm and a body plastered against his back. He rolls to face Stiles, and is greeted with a smile and a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You’re cute when you sleep,” Stiles tells him.

“What time is it?” Peter’s voice is rough, his throat’s dry, and his head aches. _Jetlag,_ he thinks to himself.

“Little after six. You slept about four hours.” Stiles continues running his fingers over Peter, tracing tiny patterns on his arms, and then the side of his neck. “Didn’t move once.”

Peter gives his head a little shake to try and wake up. He could honestly sleep for another four hours, but he knows he’ll regret it later if he does. He really doesn’t want to move, but his bladder woke him, so he struggles out of bed and shambles to the bathroom, where he pees for what feels like an hour. He washes his hands and splashes some water on his face in an attempt to feel human, and heads back to the bedroom. Stiles is looking at him with an amused expression. “What?” Peter grouses.

“You’re adorable. You have sleepy creases in your face.” Stiles lifts an arm, and Peter dives under it, snuggling up close.

“Mmm. So good to have you close, pup,” Peter mumbles, inhaling deeply. “Smell so good right now.” He can’t get enough of this. Stiles must feel the same, if the contented sigh he lets out is anything to go by. Peter can feel his eyes trying to close again, and he really can’t afford to fall asleep, but he also has no intention of leaving his comfy position. “Talk to me, sweetheart, help me stay awake? If I sleep anymore I’ll be up at three in the morning.”

Stiles grins. “We _could_ talk. Or we could make out a little?” He leans in for a kiss.

Peter seriously considers it for about a second – Stiles is warm, and he smells so damn good, and Peter could easily fall into his arms and let himself do all those things he wants to. And he _does_ want to, he realizes. But Peter also knows his self control right now is shaky at best, and if he starts something, he might not be able to stop. So he takes a deep breath, takes a second to be thankful that Stiles can’t smell his lust the way he can smell Stiles’s and says, ”Maybe not, sweetheart. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Stiles’s scent goes sour for just a second, but then it clears, and he nods. “You’re probably exhausted. Sorry.” Peter thinks about explaining to Stiles that as much as he wants him he’s still too young, that once he’s fifteen it will be a different story, but he’s too tired to form the thought into a sentence. So he just nods, and nestles in closer.

Stiles starts to talk then, and Peter lets the words roll over him, soothing in their familiarity. He tells Peter about how Derek and he have gotten closer, and he’s not sure he would have coped otherwise, about Scott still, _still,_ moping over Kira, about the carved mirror frame he’s working on with John, on and on Stiles rambles, Peter interjecting and asking questions, the pair of them reveling in the chance to just while away the time like this. Peter talks about his trip, about the searing heat in the Northern Territory, about the bastardized English that Australians seem to delight in, about how he missed Stiles so much it almost hurt. They talk about all of the little things.

They don’t talk about the subtle scent of want that drifts off Stiles, or the fact that he’s half hard against Peter’s thigh. He’ll have to explain to Stiles that they just need to wait a little longer, but that, thinks Peter hazily, is a conversation for another time. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about rock climbing I learned from watching my son spider his way up walls on his Instagram. For purposes of fic, yes, Derek's gonna stand there holding the rope sometimes, but Stiles can also let himself down using that clip thingy, because reasons.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's home, and Stiles is thrilled.  
> Except, why is Peter turning him away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey! Have a nice long chapter, because I'm going away for the weekend to celebrate our wedding anniversary with Mr Bunny and apparently I don't need to take my laptop with me. *waggles eyebrows.*  
> Which means it might take a little longer for the next chapter to get written....  
> not that I'm complaining.

 

It wouldn’t be accurate to say Peter sleeps the next day away, not entirely. Possibly a better way of describing it would be to say he…floats through it. He wakes up warm and comfortable, wrapped around Stiles’ sleeping body, and he can feel the smile creeping onto his face. _Home._ He still feels punch drunk - partly from exhaustion and jetlag, partly from the overwhelming rush of sensations that he’s drowning in just from being near his mate.  _This is nice_ , he thinks blearily, and dozes off again.

It goes on like that for the rest of the day. He’ll wake long enough to pee, or for Stiles to shove a sandwich at him, but he never quite rises to full consciousness.  At one stage, when Stiles is kissing the back of his neck, he manages to get out that they can’t, not till Stiles is fifteen, they have to wait, in half sentences and gestures, and Stiles nods solemnly in agreement. _Good_ , _he agrees_ , Peter thinks, before drifting again.

* * *

 

 

It takes Peter a day or two to get back to being a functioning adult. Stiles is his constant companion for the rest of the weekend, and they spend their time curled up close to each other on the couch or on the bed or outside with the dog, catching up on the details of the past few months. Stiles teases Peter about the way the tips of his hair have been bleached by the sun, his vaguely Australian accent, and the way Peter seems to end every sentence with _mate now_. He also shamelessly admires his tan.

Peter, in turn, admires Stiles’s… well, he just admires Stiles, if he’s honest. Everything about his boy is so different and new, and it catches Peter by surprise constantly, whether it’s having to rest his head on Stiles’s shoulder, or watching the way the muscles play and move under his tank top as he wrestles with Derek in the yard, getting his ass kicked of course, but holding his own better than Peter ever imagined he could.

Stiles whines and moans when his dad insists that he go back to school on Monday, but John is unmoved by his pleas. “Peter will still be here when you get home, kid. Now get in the car.” Stiles pouts, but does as his dad asks.

He kisses Peter goodbye, and whispers, “Pick me up after school?”

“Of course, pup.” Stiles’s pout disappears to be replaced with a smile, and Peter holds him close just a second longer, to really catch the scent of him. He hums, contentment washing over him, and Stiles does the same.  

John huffs and gives Stiles a nudge. “Come on kiddo, or you’ll be late.”  Stiles gets in the car, and Peter waves him off, shocked by how much he misses him already. Some of it is the bond, he knows, flaring up hot and fresh between them after so long, but part of it is that he just plain likes Stiles, enjoys his company after so long without it.

He’s not lonely for long though. Ruth takes him by the hand and leads him inside, informing him that he looks like a wild man and they need to get him dressed decently again. She has a point. Most of Peter’s clothing’s been through the mill while he travelled, subject to the vagaries of communal washing machines with one setting, and he’s looking the worse for wear. “We’re spending the day together, you and I. We’re going shopping, and then you can take your poor dear mother to lunch.”

Peter raises a disbelieving brow. “ _Poor dear mother?_ Mom, I’ve seen you take down a deer singlehanded.”

She waves her hand. “Details. It doesn’t sound as good if I say you’re taking your completely capable mother to lunch now, does it?”

Peter smirks, and extends his arm. “Poor dear mother, would you like to spend the day with me shopping, and then having lunch? I know you don’t get out much, delicate little thing that you are, so I’ll bring the smelling salts in case the crowds are too much for you, shall I?”

Ruth can’t help the snort that escapes her. “Still a smartass, I see. The Australians didn’t cure you of that?”

Peter laughs. “Gods, no. if anything, they made it worse.”

“Good. I like your smartassery.” She drags him into a one-armed hug and scents him. “It’s good to have you home, baby.” Peter hums in agreement. It’s good to be here. They spend the morning shopping, ending up in fits of laughter more than once when one or the other of them makes an inappropriate comment. Most of the time it’s Ruth. Peter had almost forgotten his Mom’s impish humor, and it feels good to be reminded of it - he missed her more than he knew.

They linger over their lunch, Ruth’s eyes fixed on him as they talk, and Peter can sense her satisfaction at having him home safely. He reaches out one hand and places it over hers. “I’m back, Mom. No more travelling.”

Ruth nods in agreement. “No more travelling.” She catches his gaze, and Peter thinks she’s about to impart some motherly wisdom, but instead she winks, and steals the last bite of his dessert.

 

* * *

 

 

The first day Peter’s back, Stiles spends it watching him sleep, feeding him, and sticking to him like glue. Peter doesn’t object when Stiles manoeuvres them under the blankets, or when Stiles plasters himself along Peter’s back – Stiles honestly isn’t sure whether it even registers. He runs his hand over Peter’s muscled biceps, and soaks up his werewolf warmth. Peter wakes up enough to go to the bathroom and eat something, but Stiles doubts he’s really there - his eyes are glazed, his speech slurred. He stirs when Stiles is kissing his neck, mutters something about ‘ _not now, has to be later’_ , flapping his hands around uselessly, and Stiles nods, ceasing his attentions, because Peter’s obviously too tired for this.

He’s pretty sure that Peter wants him - the way Peter rubbed up against him at the gym has left Stiles in no doubt about that. So he’s happy to wait, let Peter get over his exhaustion. They have time, because Peter’s home for good. That night, Stiles doesn’t ask, he just gets into Peter’s bed. When Peter comes into the room half an hour later and slides between the sheets, Stiles settles happily against his side and Peter holds him close, kissing him softly, but just when things are starting to heat up, he pulls back. “Off to bed with you, pup,” Peter says,  pulling the blankets back in a less that subtle indication that he wants Stiles to go.

Stiles would take it personally, if Peter didn’t let out a huge yawn just then, and if Stiles hadn’t seen the dark rings under Peter’s eyes, the signs of sheer exhaustion that even werewolf healing can’t fight, not entirely.

The next night’s exactly the same.

Stiles is reluctant to leave Peter’s side on Monday morning for school, but he has no choice.  At least Peter’s coming to pick him up. Stiles wonders if he can convince Peter to take him to the lookout for a little necking, or maybe something more. But when Peter collects him from school and Stiles shyly suggests it, Peter laughs softly and tells him “You know we can’t, pup,” before driving them home. Stiles hadn’t really expected an immediate yes, but he’d thought Peter might at least consider it, and he’s honestly confused by the out and out refusal. He decides to chalk it up to Peter still being tired from his trip – he doesn’t want to examine why else it might be too closely.

Peter’s still happy to spend time with Stiles in his arms it seems, and they spend a pleasant half hour kissing softly on the porch swing, but when Stiles tries to slide a hand under Peter’s shirt, Peter stiffens visibly and stills his movements with a hand atop his. “I don’t think so, pup,” he says quietly.  Stiles gives a frustrated huff, but accepts it for now. Peter probably needs a few more days to settle. 

As the days go by, though, Stiles starts to worry, because Peter rebuffs his every advance. They’ll kiss and scent, but as soon as Stiles presses in close, tries for anything more, Peter will quietly but firmly reject him.  After Peter being away for so long, Stiles thought maybe he would have grown up enough for Peter to be attracted to him, but apparently that’s not that case  - Peter obviously still sees him as a child.

If there’s one thing that’s been drummed into Stiles, it’s that consent goes two ways, that Peter has to want this. After a week he decides he’s not above playing dirty, and sets about tipping the odds in his favor. He still goes running with Derek early in the morning, so when he gets home, he showers while Peter’s still in bed, leaving his sweaty running gear on the bathroom floor so that the smell of him fills the room. Then he jerks off, making sure to leave traces of himself on the tiled walls. Peter and he are the only ones to use this bathroom, so he knows it won’t affect the other wolves, but he’s hoping that the scent of him will stir some kind of arousal in Peter, might lead to some making out. But Peter doesn’t say anything, other than to tersely remind him that dirty clothes go _in_ the hamper, not next to it.

He doesn’t seem affected at all, and after a week of trying Stiles has to conclude that Peter simply doesn’t want him. The thought crosses his mind that maybe Peter met someone while he was away, and now Stiles doesn’t measure up anymore.

It hurts, and Stiles retreats into himself, smarting from the knowledge that the fantasies he’d harbored of Peter coming home and sweeping him off his feet were just that – juvenile fantasies. Stiles should have known better than to expect them to be true. Telling himself that doesn’t make him feel any better though, and after two weeks of Peter shutting him down, he decides that he’s better off spending his time with his friends – the less time he spends around Peter, the less chance of his getting his hopes up, only to have them crushed.

He doesn’t understand what happened – after their reunion at the gym, Peter seems to have done a complete 180 and returned to his policy of keeping things PG. Stiles just wishes he knew exactly what he’s done to turn Peter off so thoroughly.  He wonders if it’s worth even trying to get Peter’s attention, and reluctantly admits to himself that he might as well give up.

 

* * *

 

 

As the first few days pass after his arrival home, Peter’s forced to admit that when he decided that he could keep his hands to himself till Stiles’s birthday, he may have overestimated his level of self-control. When he left, Stiles was on the cusp of turning into a teenager, but still enough of a child that Peter wasn’t prepared to act on his attraction. When they saw each other in Australia, Stiles had started down the road to maturity, but he was still enough of a boy that Peter was easily able to keep a lid on his newly awakened desires.

But now? In the year since he’s seen him, Stiles has turned into someone who, if not quite a man, is definitely not a kid any more, and Peter _wants._ He can’t act on it, not quite yet, but that doesn’t stop him from imagining it.

Stiles definitely doesn’t help matters.  Ever the tease, he’ll plop himself in Peter’s lap and press against him, seeking out kisses and tilting his head so Peter can scent him.  Kisses, scenting, Peter’s happy to do, loves making Stiles smell like him. But then Stiles will try and sneak his hands up Peter’s shirt, or down the back of his jeans.  Or he’ll wrap himself around Peter from behind while they wash up, kissing his neck and bracketing Peter against the kitchen counter, and Peter will have to give him a gentle reminder of their agreement, a _not now, pup_ , or an _I don’t think so._

Stiles will pout and frown, and sometimes his scent will turn bitter and hurt, but Peter puts it down to Stiles not getting what he wants.  Peter has to admit, he’s surprised how stubborn Stiles is being about this. Normally he listens, respects Peter’s boundaries, but he seems to either have forgotten or be wilfully ignoring that conversation they had.  Peter doesn’t know why Stiles would do such a thing, but he puts it down to his long absence. Maybe Stiles is just as desperate as he is, and is hoping Peter will cave.

And God knows, he wants to. He wants to rip Stiles’s shirt off, hold him down, and leave bruises up and down his throat. He wants to snake a hand inside Stiles’s pants and wrap a hand around his teenage dick and make his boy come, make Stiles beg and shake under him as Peter takes him apart. He wants to make Stiles smell like his, mark him and claim him so nobody will be in any doubt who he belongs to. _But he can’t._ Not yet.

So he takes Stiles’ wandering hands and places them firmly back on his hips, does his best not to respond when Stiles tries to grind down against him, even though his treacherous dick thickens and fills at the contact, and he reminds his boy, gently, _not yet_.

It doesn’t help that every day for a week,  Stiles manages to get in the shower before Peter does. He goes running early with Derek, and by the time Peter’s awake, he’s back and showered, leaving the bathroom a fragrant mess of teenage hormones and fresh sweat. To get up every morning and walk into a bathroom that reeks of Stiles and sweat and sex is the sweetest torture Peter can imagine. He wants to bury his face in the clothes strewn around the floor, rub his body against the tiles where he can smell that his boy’s pleasured himself, but he’s afraid that if he does that, he’ll lose control completely and pin Stiles to the nearest surface next time he sees him. So he settles for snapping at Stiles about picking up his dirty laundry, afraid to admit just how it affects him.

Then he locks himself in the bathroom and jerks off under the shower, and it’s nothing like what he wants or needs, not even close. He doesn’t quite take to marking the days off on a calendar till Stiles’s birthday, but it’s a close-run thing.

He seriously considers going to stay with Laura.

But then, after weeks of trying to get Peter’s attention, Stiles stops. He doesn’t press himself up against Peter, stops trying to slide his hands under his shirt. He goes quiet, drawing into himself, and Peter doesn’t know what’s wrong. Peter takes Stiles out on a dinner date in an effort to draw him out. But Stiles barely responds, playing with his food and answering Peter’s questions in single syllables or with a shrug . At the end of the night when they have their usual kiss, the air’s heavy with tension, and instead of holding on tight and kissing Peter for dear life, Stiles pulls away with a sigh and walks inside.

Peter watches him go, and wonders what’s changed. It occurs to him that maybe the friends Stiles is spending time with might be more than friends, even though he knows it’s absurd. But he can’t shake the idea that perhaps Stiles has decided he’s not worth the effort.

Maybe, just maybe, he stayed away too long after all.

 

* * *

 

It all comes to a head on a Saturday afternoon three weeks after Peter arrives home. Stiles texts Peter, asking him  to collect him from bowling with Scott and a group of friends. It’s much later than Peter was expecting, and he tries not to feel resentful about Stiles having fun without him. It’s a struggle, though. The full moon’s only days away, and it makes Peter’s wolf linger close to the surface, possessive and snappish. It’s not helped by the frustration that’s been building up when every time he looks at Stiles and _wants,_ he's met with nothing more than a cool gaze.

When Peter arrives at the bowling alley, Stiles is waiting outside with several of his friends, head thrown back laughing, and once again Peter’s struck by how attractive Stiles has become, how desirable he is. But Peter can’t do anything about it, not yet, no matter how much his wolf is whining at him. He watches for a moment as one of the girls wraps her arms around Stiles’s neck and whispers something in his ear that makes him blush, before kissing him on the cheek. Stiles squeezes her tight before pulling out of her embrace, a fond smile gracing his features.

Peter’s hit by a wave of jealousy, and he toots the horn, once, twice, the sound sharp and sudden, making Stiles’s head snap up. He waves at Peter, ambling over and sliding into the passenger’s seat without a care in the world, as if he hadn’t just been letting some girl get her scent all over him. He leans over for a kiss and Peter wrinkles his nose at the scent of her on Stiles, cherry lipgloss and perfume marring his boy’s natural scent.  

After they drive off, Peter manages to contain his curiosity for all of five minutes before he can’t help himself. “Who was that?”

“Who was what?” Stiles asks, infuriating as always.

“That _girl_. The one throwing herself at you.” Peter knows how he sounds, but he can’t stop himself.  Stiles gives him an unimpressed look.

“You mean Heather? My _friend,_ the one I’ve known for years?”

“You’ve never mentioned her,” Peter grumbles, as his wolf seethes and he fights the urge to pull over and rub himself along Stiles’s throat to erase the scent of someone else on his boy.

“Sure I have. I talk about her all the time. Maybe you just missed it, what with being away for so long.” Peter doesn’t miss the barb buried in that innocuous sentence. He breathes deeply, concentrates on driving. Stiles continues, “I’m allowed friends, Peter. I mean, what am I meant to do, wrap myself in bubble wrap and wait for you to have time for me?”

“She shouldn’t be touching you like that,” Peter mutters.

“Like what? She hugged me that’s all. Don’t be a damn sulkywolf. I’m allowed a hug from my friends, you don’t get to act all jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. I just don’t like her touching you like she has any right.” Peter hears Stiles let out a frustrated huff and when he glances sideways he sees Stiles biting his lip the way he does when he’s fighting not to say something. Apparently it’s battle Stiles loses..

“At least she _wants_ to touch me. At least she cares,” Stiles mutters under his breath.

Peter hears of course. He snaps, “I care, Stiles. You’re my soulmate, I have to care!” Even as the words leave him Peter knows they’re a mistake, but there’s no taking them back.

Stiles snaps back, his tone bitter. “Oh, you _have_ to care? I’m so sorry! It must be _so hard_ for you, having to pretend you like me! No wonder you run away every chance you get, if being my soulmate’s such a chore!” His words cut deep, and Peter’s shocked by how much the accusation stings. He always knew the day would come when Stiles threw his absence back in at him, but he’s still not prepared for it. It makes him even angrier.

Peter spits out, “And it must be so hard for you, not having me come running every time you snap your fingers, like that little tart back there did! Did you bed her while I was gone, Stiles? God knows, you’re desperate enough.”

Stiles gapes at him. “Oh my god! You’re _actually_ jealous! Jesus, Peter! Ever heard of the expression _dog in the manger_?  You don’t want me, but nobody else can have me either?”

Peter hisses out, “I don’t hear you denying it. Did you sleep with her?  Is that why she’s all over you like a dirty rash?” And then, because he’s a fool, he adds, “Speaking of rashes, I hope you at least used protection.”

Stiles punches him in the arm hard, and if Peter wasn’t a Were there’s a good chance it would have sent the car off the road with the strength of it. “You’re un- fucking-believable! You get to swan off to college and overseas and sleep with whoever the hell you want because I’m too young for you, and that’s fine, but the second your possessive wolfy ass thinks I’m interested in someone, they’re a tart and I’m desperate? That’s rich!”

When he puts it like that Peter has to admit he has a point, but he’s too angry to care. “You’re _mine,_ Stiles. You don’t get to sleep with anyone but me!”

If Peter thought Stiles was upset before, it’s nothing to the wave of sheer rage that comes rolling off him now. “So, in other words, I don’t get to sleep with _anyone_ , because you’re sure as hell not interested. You just told me you _have to care_ because I’m your soulmate, but anytime I want to take things further it’s ‘ _best not pup’_ , or ‘ _not now, Stiles’_ , or _‘I don’t think so’_ and you never give me any damned reason! I guess you just don’t want me!”

Peter’s wolf, already snapping and snarling at the very idea of Stiles with anyone else, pushes to the fore, and his fangs drop.  Peter pulls over, unable to concentrate. He has to take a deep breath to bring his shift under control, because he needs his fangs gone to shout, “Don’t want you? _Don’t want you?_ I struggle every day to keep my hands off you! And you refuse to take no for an answer – but I mean, you never could, could you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if you could listen and leave things alone when you’re told, you wouldn’t have lost your fingertip, would you?” It’s a low blow, but Peter always was good at fighting dirty.

“Oh, _fuck you!_ I can’t believe you’d bring that up – I was a damn kid!” Stiles folds his arms tight against his chest. “Maybe I should have taken Derek up on his offer – at least he’s not an entitled, judgemental _asshole_!”

Peter stills. “What offer?”

A look of triumph flits across Stiles’s face. “Oh yeah, Derek and I had it all planned. If you weren’t back in six months, he offered to be my soulmate. We had a tattoo guy lined up to alter my mark and everything. Because he's not you, but at least he’s _here_.”

Peter snarls at that. “ _No! You’re mine! You’ll always be mine!”_

He turns to Stiles, wanting to drag him close and shake him for suggesting anything so stupid, when he sees frustration and anger written across Stiles’s face, smells bitterness and misery coming off him. The scent is sharp and acrid, and it makes Peter feel slightly sick. “ _Then_ _why won’t you touch me?"_ Stiles shouts _._ "Why do you always turn me down? You came back, and at the gym you were all over me, and then suddenly it’s _no_ and _wait_ and I don’t understand! What did I do to make you not want me?”

Peter’s brow furrows. “You _know_ why we have to wait!”

“No, no I don’t! Why, Peter, why? Explain to me why you’re always the one who gets to set the pace? When I was six, hell even when I was twelve, it made sense. But I grew up while you were away. I’m not a little kid any more. I should have some say in this!”

“I _know_ you grew up, you reek of lust! You have no idea what you smell like to a wolf, do you? It’s like you’re soaked in sex and want, and it’s maddening, knowing I can’t touch you yet!  And you know damn well I can’t, but still you go around rubbing yourself against me, tempting me, when we both agreed to wait!“

Stiles looks at him, confused. “ _When? When_ did we agree to wait? _I_ didn’t agree to anything!””

Peter rolls his eyes. He could cheerfully strangle Stiles right now. “When I got back. I told you that I didn’t want your father chasing me down, and we agreed that we’d hold off till you were fifteen.”

Stiles looks at him blankly.

“Oh, you must remember. It was the day after I flew in. I distinctly remember when you were kissing my neck, asking you to stop, explaining that I wanted to wait.”

Stiles shakes his head slowly. “Um, no?”

Peter huffs impatiently. “I said, _Stiles, you know I want you, but we have to wait till you’re older.”_

“Nope. I’d remember something like that. Are you sure you didn’t dream it? Because when I kissed your neck, all you did was wave your hands and say ‘ _not now, has to be later_.‘ I thought you were just tired!”

Peter snorts. “Of course I didn’t dream it. I’m not an idiot. We definitely talked about this.”

Stiles places a hand softly on Peter’s jaw and guides his face so he can look him in the eye. “Peter, we really, really, didn’t. Do you think I would have been trying so hard to get you interested if we had?”

Peter’s certainty falters a little at that. For all Stiles is impulsive and impatient, he’s always respected Peter’s boundaries before now – it’s what’s made his persistence in the last few weeks so jarring. “We talked, I’m sure…” because they had. Stiles had held him close, and Peter had asked him if he could wait, and Stiles had nodded and flashed his eyes in agreement and _oh._

No, he didn’t. Because Peter dreamed the whole thing.

“Fuck,” falls from Peter’s mouth unbidden as the truth hits him. “We never – we didn’t talk at all, did we?”

Stiles shakes his head very, very slowly. “I have no idea what you’re think you’re remembering.”

Peter nods. “I must have dreamed it, because in my dream, you were a ‘wolf,” he whispers, almost to himself.

Stiles lets go of Peter’s face so that he can punch his arm again, even harder. “ _Are_ y _ou fucking kidding me right now?”_

“Shit. I was so tired, I imagined it.” Peter feels like the worst kind of asshole right now.  For weeks he’s been thinking the worst of Stiles, that he wasn’t respecting his wishes, and it turns out that Peter’s been in the wrong the whole time. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, and he doesn’t like it. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

Stiles looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “You _idiot_. I’ve spent the last three weeks thinking you don’t want me, that I’ve upset you somehow, and it’s because you can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s a dream?”

Peter frowns. “Why would you ever think I didn’t want you, baby? You know that I love you.”

 Stiles goes very still and very quiet for a moment, and his eyes go wide. “What?”

“I said, you know I love you,” Peter repeats, just glad that Stiles has stopped punching him.

“ You’ve – you never said so before.” Stiles’s voice catches in his throat, and Peter realizes with a sinking feeling that Stiles is right, it’s just something else that he’s gotten horribly wrong, something else he assumed Stiles would know.

“Stiles, I’ve loved you for years. That was never in question. And of course I want you.”

Stiles’s lip quivers a little, and he lets out a tiny sound. “You – really?”

Peter’s not sure what he’s asking about, but regardless, the answer’s the same. “With every fibre of my being, sweetheart.”

“Does that mean you’ll stop turning me down every time I touch you?”  Stiles sounds so hesitant, so hopeful, and it strikes Peter how it must have seemed to Stiles, being rejected at every turn. He’s been hurting his boy for weeks now.

Peter undoes his seatbelt and leans over, pulling Stiles into a long, passionate kiss. “Sweetheart, I could never not want you,” he says when they part.

Stiles’s lips quirk up the tiniest bit, and Peter can tell that while he’s still shaken, he’s not angry any more, not like he was. “Yeah well, what was I meant to think? Seeing as you only talked to me in your mind.”

Peter sighs. “I blame jetlag and lack of sleep for this whole stupid thing. How can I make it up to you?”

Stiles hums. “Well let’s see, you told me I was a tease, dragged up a traumatic childhood injury, accused me of sleeping around, called my friend a tart, and implied I might catch something off her.”

Peter groans. “I really am an asshole.”

“You really are. Lucky for you, I kinda love you.”

Hearing that makes Peter feel a warm glow in his chest, and he automatically replies, “I love you too, pup.”  Based on the dazzling smile Stiles gives him, Peter decides that’s something he’s going to be saying a whole lot more.

Stiles leans in and kisses Peter gently. “Tell you what, you can make it up to me by driving us to the lookout for an hour.”

“The lookou – oh, you mean, Makeout Point?” Peter raises a brow.

“Uh huh. You say you want me - I want you too. And I want more than just kisses.” Stiles tilts his head back, and there’s an unspoken challenge there, Peter knows. _Show me that you mean what you say._

“But your birthday’s not - ”

“My birthday’s not important. Earning my forgiveness is. And I mean, it’s _Makeout Point_ Peter, not _Fuck Me Point_. I’m not asking for much, not really.” He turns wide amber eyes on Peter and looks up from under his lashes in a way that makes Peter’s mouth go dry with want. “Please? Just this once, can’t you say yes?”

Peter puts the car in drive, turns around, and drives them to Makeout Point.

 

* * *

 

 

When they get to the lookout, it’s deserted, and Stiles grins. He clambers into the back seat of the SUV and looks at Peter expectantly where he’s still in the driver’s seat.

Peter takes a moment to fiddle with the radio, finding something soft and sultry, before joining Stiles in the back. Then Peter wraps himself around him, scenting him and rubbing his scruff against Stiles’s cheek, erasing the smell of Heather. “Mmm, pup. You smell so good.  I can’t wait to make you mine.” He starts to kiss Stiles, deep and slow and syrupy, and his boy makes pleased noises as he kisses back. Stiles drapes himself in Peter’s lap, and this time Peter doesn’t push him away, doesn’t make excuses. For a long while they do nothing but kiss, hands sliding up shirts and across backs, touching each other as they while away the time.  Eventually though, Stiles tilts his head to the side to give Peter better access to his throat. “I want you to mark me.”

Peter stills where he’s been kissing his way down the column of Stiles’s throat. “Stiles, your dad – “

“Isn’t here right now. C’mon, Peter. Nobody cares about one little hickey.”

Stiles has a point. Still, Peter hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Gods, yes. Are you though? Because I could always ask Derek…”

Peter growls. “ _Not funny, Stiles. You’re mine.”_

Stiles, the little shit, looks Peter squarely in the eye. “ _Prove it_ , _wolf_.”

Peter’s control was already stretched thin, and it snaps at the challenge. He flips them over and pins Stiles under him against the seat, attacking the soft skin of his throat, sucking until he’s worked a giant bruise there. Stiles squirms and whimpers under the assault, but Peter knows it’s not in pain, because his boy’s scent is thick with lust, and he’s gasping out _oh fuck yes_ , as he grinds his hips up against Peter. Peter’s cock grows hard in his jeans, and he rolls his hips as he mouths his way down to Stiles’s collarbones and begins to mark them as well.

Stiles lets out a whine and pushes Peter away. Peter stops immediately, worried he’s gone too far, but Stiles just uses the space between them to get his hands on his zipper and shimmy his skinny jeans halfway down his ass, exposing his boxer clad erection. Peter huffs out a laugh, and wiggles half out of his own jeans before grabbing Stiles by the hips and starting to grind them together. Stiles is making soft little sounds as he thrusts against the satin of Peter’s boxers, the slip and slide of the smooth fabric heaven on Peter’s throbbing cock, and the taste of Stiles’s sweat, the heat of his body, and the softness of his skin under Peter’s mouth combine in a glorious, heady mix that has Peter close to coming already. They’re not even skin to skin, Peter thinks hazily, this shouldn’t be as good as it is, it’s barely anything for god’s sake, just the rub of fabric on flesh and the tiny panting sounds Stiles is making, but because it’s with _Stiles_ , it’s everything, and he doesn’t ever want it to stop.

Peter opens his eyes, wants to check that this is okay, that Stiles is okay, and sees that Stiles has thrown his head back, eyes closed, throat exposed for the taking. All rational thought disappears. Peter nips at the tender flesh, leaving another mark even as he ruts mindlessly.  Stiles’s hips stutter against his and he thrusts against Peter once more, coming with a soft cry. The feeling of wet warmth against him and the smell of Stiles’s come has Peter losing control, and he barely has time to stammer out a warning before his own cock throbs and spurts, and he comes just like that, half naked in the back of his dad’s SUV.

There’s a moment where silence stretches over them, and then Stiles pulls Peter down into a sloppy kiss. When they part, he’s flushed and grinning, and Peter thinks he’s never seen anything more gorgeous. He leans in and kisses Stiles, properly this time, slow and soft, something special. He can’t help the contented rumbling in his chest as his wolf preens. Eventually they pull apart, and Stiles lets out a giggle. He bops Peter on the tip of his nose with one finger. “This car smells like sex. Your dad’s gonna kill you.”

Peter drops his head onto Stiles’s shoulder and groans. “ _We_ smell like sex. Your father’s the one who’ll kill me.”

Stiles lifts Peter’s head and smiles at him softly. “I don’t think he’ll care, honestly. We talked before you came back, and he kinda said that it was so close to my birthday and you’d been gone for so long that he’d turn a blind eye to a little fooling around. Which you’d _know_ ,” he adds pointedly, “If you’d ever talked to me, or if we’d actually had that conversation you thought we had.”

Peter groans again. “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Maybe. Eventually. I mean, you’re doing a pretty good job of redeeming yourself.” Stiles moves then, and scrunches up his face – Peter guesses it’s in response to the feeling of the sticky mess that’s between them. “Shit. We’re a mess, aren’t we? Maybe we can sneak into the house, get in a shower before anyone notices?”

“Maybe.” Peter leans in and scents Stiles, and all he can smell is satisfaction, deep and spicy and alluring. It makes him want to do it all over again. But the sky’s starting to darken outside, and if they want to get home and shower before dinner, they’ll have to make a move. He regretfully lets go of Stiles, and opens the centre console, pulling out a pack of wet wipes. He hands one to Stiles and they clean themselves up. Stiles still has a slightly stunned expression on his face, and Peter suspects he does, too. This was far more than he expected to happen, and there’s part of him that still suspects John would drag him out the back and pistol whip him if he ever found out, whatever Stiles claims, but at the look on Stiles’s face, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

 

* * *

 

They manage to slip into the house undetected and have a quick shower. Peter draws the line at Stiles joining him. “The idea is to smell _less_ like sex, Stiles,” he tells him, laughing. Stiles, for once, doesn’t look hurt and shrink on himself (and how bad had it gotten, Peter wonders, that he notices the absence of those reactions so immediately?).

Instead, Stiles laughs and shrugs. “Pretty sure the shower won’t wash these hickeys off.” He tilts his head to the side, visibly preening, and Peter’s wolf purrs at the sight – Stiles has not one, but two visible bruises, not to mention the ones along his collarbone. Peter manages to stop himself adding another mark, barely, but he does press Stiles into the wall and scent him greedily. When he lifts his face away, Stiles is smirking. “You really do like me, huh?”

“Baby, you have no idea,” Peter manages to croak out. He pulls himself away and sends Stile to the bathroom with a playful swat to the backside. “Go shower, and be quick about it, pup.”

Stiles does as he’s told, and as Peter watches his boy walk – no, _strut,_ to the bathroom, he’s struck by the whole change in Stiles’ demeanor, and wonders again how he could have missed how miserable he’s been making him feel. He needs to apologize properly, he decides, and they need to talk, for real this time.

He’s still thinking of ways to let Stiles know how sorry he is when Stiles emerges, showered and dressed. Peter raises an eyebrow when he sees that Stiles is wearing a tank top, all the marks Peter left on him on display. “You don’t want something with a collar sweetheart, to try and cover those?”

“Nope. That a problem?” Stiles folds his arms and gives Peter a defiant look.

“No problem at all.  But if I disappear in the next few days, tell them to look for my body in the preserve.”

Stiles snorts, calls him a drama queen, and tangles their fingers together as they walk downstairs for dinner.

John’s the last one to sit down, having just come in from the workshop, and he stills when his eyes land on the dark marks on Stiles’s throat, but he doesn’t say anything, just sits down silently after a second. Peter looks down at his plate and avoids catching John’s eye.  After everyone’s filled their plates, John finally speaks. “So, kiddo. Do anything interesting today?”

Peter can hear the smirk in Stiles’s voice when he replies, “Peter took me to the lookout. We made out.” Peter cringes quietly and prays for a quick death.

There’s a moment’s silence before John says,” Well, it’s about damn time.”

“I know, right? I _told_ him you wouldn’t mind.”  Peter risks a glance up and sees that everyone’s staring at him and grinning madly, including John. He ducks his head again. Peter can _feel_ his mother’s eyes on him, can sense her amusement. It occurs to him then that maybe there’s something worse than parental disapproval – they’re going to roast him, he just knows it.

Sure enough, Ruth gets the ball rolling. “Tell me Stiles, did my wayward son at least take you somewhere nice before he sullied your virtue?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t think he’s totally sullied me though, to be fair. I think he only smudged me a little.”

Peter rolls his eyes – Stiles is enjoying this far too much. Tom chimes in with, “Really? Because I’m not gonna lie, the way my car smells, someone got plenty sullied. _Two_ someones, actually.” He fixes Peter with a stern look. “You’re taking that in to be detailed tomorrow, by the way. And you’re paying.”

All Peter can manage is “Yes Dad.”  The tips of his ears burn as they turn scarlet, and it doesn’t get any better from there.

“Now, now, Tom,“ Ruth scolds. “You can’t say that the smell of the car is any worse than the way the tension between these two has been souring up the whole house. I was _this close_ to locking you in a room together until you sorted yourselves out.” She holds her fingers the barest whisper apart.

“Yeah, well. Funny story. Turns out _someone_ can’t tell the difference between real life and dreams, and _someone_ thought we’d talked about some things, but _someone_ was wrong. And now someone’s realised he was wrong, haven’t you Peter?” Stiles looks at Peter, a gleam in his eye, and Peter knows that Stiles is going to hang him out to dry.

He supposes he deserves it, but that doesn’t make it any better when Tom turns on him. “Peter David Thomas Hale, are you telling me you’ve been holding out on this poor boy? After he waited over a year for you to come home?”

“I was trying to do the right thing,” Peter mutters.

“Yeah. When he could have been doing _me_ instead.” Stiles beams when Ruth snickers into her mashed potatoes and Tom claps Stiles on the back with a quiet _good one, Stiles._

John clears his throat. “Stiles, behave. I love you son, but there’s a limit to what I wanna hear, okay?” Stiles nods, completely unconvincingly. John turns to Peter, then. “And Peter? I want you to know. If you knock him up, I expect you to do the right thing by my boy.”

Stiles cackles, Ruth and Tom howl with laughter, and Peter drops his face on the table with a groan. ”I hate you all,” he mutters, which just makes them laugh even harder. He looks across the table at Stiles, head thrown back laughing, looking more carefree than he has since Peter got back, and smiles resignedly to himself. He can take a little teasing, if it makes Stiles happy.  

The details come out about how Peter dreamed his talk with Stiles, and he does get ribbed a little about it, but surprisingly, it’s John who comes to his rescue. “I gotta, say, as someone who’s worked a whole lotta night shift? I can see it. I mean, there were times Claudia told me things and I’d swear up and down she never mentioned it, because my brain was so damn fried.” He nods at Stiles. “Including expecting you.”

Stiles stares at him, mouth open, and Ruth grins. “Claudia mentioned that once, but I didn’t think it was actually true. John, tell me you didn’t?”

John sighs. “Sad to say, I did. Claudie told me she was expecting just before I went to bed, and I was excited as all hell. Went to sleep with a smile the size of Texas on my face. Only somehow, by the time I woke up, I’d forgotten. So there’s Claudie, all dewy eyed, cuddling up, asking if I have a preference for names, and I’m was dumb enough to say ‘What for?”

Tom whistles quietly between his teeth, murmuring, “Noooo, John.”

“Noooo is right,” John chuckles. “Claudie pitched a fit - swore that since I didn’t even care about our baby, if it was a boy she was naming him after her father. Of course, I said yes – hell, at that stage, I would have agreed to Little Bo Peep, she was so angry. She stuck to her word, too.” He chuckles at the memory, and nods at Peter. “So, when you say you thought you’d had that talk? I believe you. And son? We all do damn stupid things, even to our soulmates.”

Peter gives John a small nod and a smile, relieved to hear that nobody expects him to get this right all the time.

“Ruth called me a week after we met to ask me to come over because all the lights were out, and then when I got there, she literally dragged me into bed,” Tom announces suddenly. “Consent be damned, she wanted what she wanted.” He blows Ruth a kiss. “Luckily, I wanted it too. But she could have just asked, instead of pulling the fuses.”

Ruth’s cheeks take on a pink tinge. “You didn’t seem to mind me pulling _your_ fuses. And you had a _mighty_ short fuse that first night, if I remember rightly,” she replies tartly.

Tom just laughs, nodding in agreement. “Hell, yes. You were the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Still are, sweetheart.” Ruth smiles at him soft and secret, when he says that. Besides,“ he adds, “Good thing it _was_ quick. You mom came home not ten minutes later, I had to hide in your closet.”

“God, I remember - I was terrified we were going to get caught.”  She gives Tom a significant look. “You definitely improved with practice, honey.” Tom raises his eyebrows and whatever that particular expression means, it makes Ruth giggle, and blush even harder.

Stiles watches them for a moment before he nudges Peter. “I see where your family gets the whole talking in eyebrows thing.”

“Hmmm. It’s a family skill. I’ll teach you, pup. We’ll be able to have whole conversations across a room,” Peter murmurs back. Stiles rests his head on Peter’s shoulder, and hums happily when Peter ruffles his hair.

Peter notes that the attention’s off him, and he lets out a tiny relieved sigh. John’s busy telling them that he actually dated Claudia’s best friend before they met. “She introduced us. One look at Claudia, and I forgot poor Jane even existed. We might have ducked out of that party and left Jane stranded there,” he confesses, grinning. “She came over to Claudia’s the next day ready to pitch a fit, but when Claude answered the door wearing a robe and a smile, and showed her the name on her wrist, she couldn’t really be too mad.”

Stiles frowns. “Wait – didn’t she see the name when you two met?”

John squirms a little. “We didn’t actually…touch until we were back at her place. Got a hell of a shock when our names appeared. We …maybe didn’t tell Jane that we didn’t find out till later, though.” Stiles stares at him, wide eyed. “What? It was winter! She was wearing a sweater! There were a lot of layers!” John defends.

Tom throws his head back and positively roar _s_ with laughter. “John Stilinski, absolute hound dog!”

Stiles is still staring, shocked. “Oh my god! I thought you were supposed to be a good example, but you’re all terrible people. Peter and I are _saints_ by comparison,” he huffs.

At that, he goes to lead Peter upstairs, but Tom shakes his head. “Good try, Stiles. But moral outrage doesn’t get you out of dish duty.”

Stiles pouts, but heads to the kitchen. Peter goes to follow him, but John reaches out and grabs his arm. “Sit,” he says firmly. Peter sits. John gazes at him with those keen eyes of his, and Peter wonders if this is where John threatens to arrest him. But instead, John places a hand gently on his wrist. “Peter, why didn’t you say something? I would have told you that it was fine to fool around a little – hell, the way Stiles has been pining, I would have encouraged it. Why didn’t you come talk to me, son? I thought we were pack?” There’s disappointment written on his features.

Peter thinks carefully before he answers. Truth be told, he _had_ considered going to John, if only to find out if maybe Stiles had someone else. But he’d been away so long, he felt like they’d lost some of the closeness they’d built. And he didn’t want their first conversation back to be about Stiles and sex and insecurity. It had felt too raw, too real, to share. In the end he settles for, ”I was gone a long time, John.  And I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with it.”

John shakes his head. “Hell no, I’m not comfortable with it. But for my kid? I’ll _get_ comfortable with it, if it means he’s happy. So, you need to talk, you come find me and talk, all right?” Peter nods, humbled by the understanding John’s showing him.  

He goes to stand but John crooks his finger and beckons him close. “Peter? One more thing.”  Peter leans towards John, expecting an _If you hurt my boy I’ll bury you_ comment. Instead, John leans in and whispers, ”Remember, son. _Wrap it before you tap it_.”

Peter can hear Tom and Ruth cackling from the kitchen as he shoves his chair back and bolts from the room, John’s laughter following him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pffft," I hear you say. "Who the hell would forget whole conversations just because of jetlag or night shift?"  
> *Raises hand.*  
> Mr Bunny worked night shift for a lot of years - he forgot that his parents were coming from interstate, and was adamant I hadn't mentioned it. Other timeS, he swore he'D told me things and I had no clue. Yes, he'd dreamed it.  
> My son's a baker - night shift brain. It's a thing.  
> PSA - if you know any shift workers, treat them with love people, and for the love of god, WRITE SHIT DOWN FOR THEM.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles talk some things out, and Peter realizes exactly how he's made his baby feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, it's relatively short, at 4300 words, but we cover a lot of ground. I was inspired by my weekend away, apparently :)

 

Half an hour after Peter retreats upstairs, there’s a quiet tap at his door. He opens it expecting to see Stiles there, but it’s his Mom. She raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission to enter, and Peter steps aside to let her in. As soon as she’s in the room, she drags him into a hug. Peter squeezes her back, still emotionally drained after the events of the day. His mom leans against his shoulder for a moment before asking, “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Peter closes his eyes and holds her tighter, soaking up the contact. “Like an asshole. We argued, Mom, and I – some of what I said was out of line.”

Ruth pulls away enough to look up at him. “So I heard. Stiles told me what happened while we were washing up. You really accused him of sleeping with Heather? Peter, you _know_ Heather! You've given her piggyback rides when she was younger.”

Peter’s brow furrows in confusion. “Have I? Heather, Heather…” he mutters to himself, before his eyes go wide. “Wait, skinny little redhead with braces Heather? _That’s her?”_

Ruth laughs at him fondly. “That’s her. Stiles isn’t the only one who’s grown up while you were away, you know.”

Peter groans. Just one more thing that’s happened without him being here to see it. “I didn’t know it was her. Isn’t her soulmate The Wilson girl? No wonder Stiles was so upset with me implying they’d slept together.”

Ruth hums. “From what I heard, you accused rather than implied.” Peter’s cheeks heat at the reminder, and his mother nods. “Uh huh. Glad to see you feel a little bad about it, at least. It’s good that you and Stiles have started to talk, but you need to sort some things out, otherwise this will just keep happening. I wasn’t joking about putting you two in a locked room together. Tomorrow, go somewhere you won’t be disturbed, and spend the day hashing this out.”

“I will, Mom.” He sighs. “I have no clue what I’m doing right now.”

Ruth gives him a squeeze. “I know, Peter. I forget that you don’t have any more relationship experience than Stiles does, not really. You know you can always talk to me, right?”

“I know, Mom. John told me the same thing. And I will.”  He lets out a rueful laugh. “I mean, gods above, I’m making a mess of it on my own, aren’t I?”

His mother just ruffles his hair, and tells him it’s going to be fine. He hopes like hell she’s right.

 

* * *

 

 A little later, just as Peter’s settling into bed for the night, there’s another knock at the door. It creaks open and Stiles pokes his head in, looking unsure.  Peter smiles broadly and extends his arms. “Pup! Get in here. I need a hug.”

Stiles is across the room in moments. Peter buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck and is relieved that all he can smell is contentment. Stiles snuggles up closer, and Peter shuffles over to make room for him on the bed. Stiles hums and settles in close, prompting Peter to ask, “Comfy?”, amusement coloring his tone.

Stiles nods. “Yup. Need to be close. Don’t like fighting.”

“Me either, pup. But how about we talk tomorrow? I don’t think I can take anymore today, honestly.”

“Okay. I’m staying here tonight, though, just so you know.”

Peter wants nothing more than for Stiles to stay, but still, he checks. “And your dad’s okay with us sharing a room?”

“Uh huh. Says it’s fine. Something about a horse and a stable door.” Stiles tightens his grip, and Peter takes the hint.

“In that case, I’d love you to stay, sweetheart.“ Stiles looks so content, so _right_ curled up next to him that it prompts Peter to say, “Love you, pup.”

Stiles beams at him and sneaks a kiss. “Love you too, sulkywolf.”

“Brat,” Peter tells him fondly. He watches over Stiles until he’s asleep, drawing comfort from his presence. His mind ticks over with plans for tomorrow, and it’s not long before he follows Stiles into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

When Peter wakes, they’re wrapped together in a tangle of limbs, Stiles’s mouth hanging slightly open. Peter resists the urge to press against Stiles’s back and grind up against him, tempting as it is. Instead, he slips out of bed. It’s early, barely past six, but he needs time to get ready for today. He goes downstairs and busies himself in the kitchen, and it’s nearly eight by the time he’s done. His mom slips into the kitchen just as Peter’s finished baking, and she raises an eyebrow when she sees what he’s made. “Stiles loves those. Good move,” she comments, before shoving past Peter to get to the coffee machine.

Peter packs the picnic basket for later, then readies a tray and carries it upstairs, carefully placing it on the bed before waking Stiles with a kiss on the forehead. Stiles blinks once, twice, and pouts. “Why? ‘s too early,” he complains.

“Come now, sweetheart. It’s not early, not really. You get up earlier than this to go running. I made you breakfast.” Peter holds out a cup of hot chocolate as a peace offering.

Stiles sits up and accepts the drink, slightly more awake. “Why am I awake again?”

“I wanted to take you out, pup. Go somewhere we won’t get disturbed. I thought we could head down to that nice spot near the lake and settle in, then talk.”

Stiles manages a sleepy smile. “Mmm. I like the lake. Just talking, or maybe some necking?”

Peter smirks. “Talking, and then definitely necking.”

Stiles eats the breakfast Peter’s made him eagerly, and Peter’s wolf hums in satisfaction at having provided for his soulmate. After they’ve eaten, Stiles shambles off to shower, and by the time he emerges he’s properly awake. He wraps long arms around Peter’s neck and pulls him in for a lingering kiss. Peter closes his eyes and goes with it, and wonders how exactly he thought this was a bad idea, and why he ever tried to resist it. When Stiles finally pulls away, he’s wearing a complicated expression. “This -this is all right?” He sounds uncertain, so Peter kisses him again.

It’s not like it’s a hardship, to reassure his boy. He pulls back and cups Stiles’s face in his hands. “Sweet boy, this is more than all right.”

Stiles’s scent floods with something like relief, and Peter takes it as confirmation that his mom was right – they need to have a proper discussion about this. He needs to reassure Stiles that he wants him, that it really was just a miscommunication.  He needs to shower and get dressed, and then they need to run away from the rest of the world, just for the day, and Peter will need to apologize some more. For now though, he nuzzles against Stiles’s throat and holds him close, enjoying the contact.

 

* * *

 

 They make it out the door, eventually. Stiles insists they take the dog, so Peter loads Scar and Stiles and the picnic basket he’d prepared that morning into the SUV and they head out. He wrinkles his nose a little when he gets in the car – Tom was right, it does smell like sex.

Stiles eyes the basket curiously, and Peter shrugs. “I thought we’d probably get hungry, later.”

Stiles opens the top of the basket and when he sees the container with brownies in there, he throws Peter a happy smile. “Are these Mama Ruth’s recipe?”

“Yep. Made them fresh this morning. I made peanut butter cookies, and ham, cheese and salad subs as well – everything you like.”

“Are you buttering me up?” Stiles asks, eyes alight with amusement.

“I’m definitely buttering you up.” Peter glances over to see Stiles grinning.

“Well, you can keep doing it.” Stiles helps himself to a brownie, taking a bite and dropping crumbs on the seat. Normally Peter would tell him not to make a mess, but he lets it go – after all, the car needs to be detailed anyway, and the moans Stiles lets out as he tastes the sweet treat are distracting and enticing in all the best ways, which more than makes up for the mess.

It doesn’t take them long to reach their destination. The skies are clear, and the sun’s weak rays put out enough warmth that it’s a pleasant spot to sit. Peter pulls a comforter out of the back of the car and they settle themselves on it, Stiles curling up close to him. The dog decides to join them, and Peter finds himself with a face full of boxer as Scar attempts to fit across both their laps. Stiles laughs, but he also gives the dog an affectionate shove, dislodging him.

“He knows he’s not allowed on laps, he’s just hoping you don’t,” he tells Peter wisely.  Then he’s up and off the rug, throwing a stick for the dog, leaving Peter sitting there. Peter watches for a minute, drinking in the sight of Stiles laughing and happy in a way he hasn’t been for weeks. He compares it to the silent, hurt version of Stiles that he’s been seeing, and suddenly it hits home _exactly_ how much he’s hurt his boy, just what he's done.

“I really made you feel terrible about yourself, didn’t I?” Peter blurts out.

Stiles stills, just for a second, before going back to throwing the stick. “Kinda, yeah,” he says, far too casually. His back’s facing Peter, but Peter can tell that his shoulders are tight with tension. “I didn’t know what was wrong with me.” Peter wonders briefly if there’s a rock nearby that he can crawl under. The words continue to tumble from Stiles’s lips. “At first, I thought you were just tired. Then I thought maybe you met someone else, while you were away. And then I decided you just didn’t like me that way. And why would you?” His breath hitches, but he keeps his back turned resolutely as he continues. “I waited, Peter. I waited _so damn long_ for you to come back. And the whole time I was thinking about you, imagining you coming back and wanting to be with me. And then you didn’t want me at all.” A broken sob escapes at that.

Peter feels tears prickling at the corners of his own eyes as he stands swiftly and goes to his boy. He wraps his arms around him from behind, feels Stiles’s shoulders shaking as he cries, letting out his anger and hurt, and all Peter can do is hold him tight while saying softly, “I’m sorry pup. I’m so, so sorry.” Stiles doesn’t reply, doesn’t turn around at all, and Peter’s at a loss. There’s nothing he can do to make this better.

Stiles’s voice is wet with tears when he finally speaks again. “I’m just sick of waiting, sick of not knowing what’s happening next. Are you home? Are you leaving again?  Am I allowed in your room? Can I touch you? What are the rules _today?_ I need to know where I stand, Peter. I’m so sick of  -“ he breaks off for a minute, and Peter waits for  him to gather his thoughts. “I’m sick of feeling like - like a _dog_ , waiting to see if I’ve been good enough to earn a pat, begging for scraps from my master,” he finally grits out, and _ouch_.

Peter turns Stiles in his arms and pulls him in as close as he can, his own throat tight with emotion. He knew Stiles was upset, but that – the thought that he’s treated his soulmate like a pet – shatters him. His own tears start to flow, and he has no hope of holding them back, doesn’t even try.

They’re tears of guilt, tears of shame and remorse, because Stiles is right, in a lot of ways. Peter’s made sure his soulmate’s fed and watered and taken care of, and then just left him, expecting Stiles to be there waiting when he comes back. And to make matters worse, he’s made decisions for both of them without including Stiles. Not _once_ in the past three weeks did he think to talk to Stiles. He just shoved him away, the exact same way Stiles did to the dog, expecting him to understand without question.

Peter feels like an absolute swine right now. He runs a hand through Stiles’s hair, and all he can do is say, ” _I’m so sorry, sweetheart_ ,” over and over, between sobs. it takes him a while to get control of himself enough to speak properly. “I never wanted to make you feel that way, Stiles. All I want is to be with you,” Peter murmurs. “No more travel, no more being apart, I promise. From now on, we decide together. in fact, you can set the pace. Tell me what you want, Stiles. Tell me how I can make this better. I swear I never meant to hurt you.” He wonders how many ways there are to say sorry, wonders if any of them would ever be enough for Stiles to forgive him.

He continues his litany of  apology until finally  Stiles turns his face up and kisses him softly to shut him up. His lips brush over Peter’s soft and sweet, and at least Stiles isn’t crying anymore. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, Peter. I’m just telling you that you did,” Stiles murmurs against his lips.

Peter has no reply to that, other than to repeat “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Stiles pulls away and looks Peter in the eye, His face is red and blotchy, but his gaze is steady. “Stop apologizing, okay? I’m partly to blame as well. I never asked you what was going on. I guess I was afraid of what you’d say.”

Peter shakes his head. “No. This one’s on me. I’ve been selfish. I keep leaving you behind, and it’s not fair. No wonder you don’t think I care.”

Stiles shrugs. “What were you going to do, not go to college? Not take that job? We talked about those things, Peter. I told you to go. And Indonesia? Please -  like you were going to let people die because your boyfriend was lonely. That’s not you, and we both know it.”

“But still,” Peter persists. “I’ve been away so much. You’re a different person, now. You’re practically an adult, and I missed it. You’re right. I’ve been treating you like a –“ he can’t make himself say the word _dog,_ so he settles for “pet.”

“You really have,” Stiles agrees. He looks a little surer of himself as he continues speaking. ”You can’t just decide things, like you did when you said that we were waiting. Even if you had been awake when we talked, that’s not your decision to make. I get a say too.”

Peter hangs his head, chastened. When he finally looks up, he smiles a little ruefully. “You’re right, of course. But then, you’ve always been the clever one, haven’t you?”

Stiles rests his head on Peter’s shoulder and lets out a shuddery breath. ”I hate this. I hate the fighting, and I hate that you feel bad. But I can’t let you – I _won’t_ let you _–_ I need you to talk to me, okay?”

Peter hums affirmatively. “I deserve to feel bad, sweetheart. I’ve hurt you, for no other reason than I was arrogant enough to think you should go along with what I decided, and I didn’t think to check in with you. I’m an idiot.”

“Yep,” Stiles mutters into Peter’s shoulder, and Peter huffs out a soft laugh, and feels a little lighter, somehow. It’s hard, and they have a lot more to talk about, but they’re getting there.

 

* * *

 

 

They spend a long time standing there wrapped around each other, and they only break apart in the end because Scar keeps butting his head against the back of Peter’s knees in an effort to get him to throw his stick. They spend the next half an hour indulging the dog, both throwing the stick for him, Peter showing off his ‘wolf strength and tossing it an impressive distance, then kissing Stiles till the dog comes back. “Showoff,” Stiles mutters, as he kisses Peter again.

Finally Scar’s worn out, and he lays down with his head on his paws and begins to doze. Stiles watches him for a second to be sure he’s settled, and then pulls Peter down onto the comforter. He only hesitates a moment when he slides a hand under Peter’s shirt. “Is this okay?”

Peter lays a hand over his shirt, stilling Stiles’s movements. “Sweetheart, it’s perfectly okay. But did you want to maybe talk some more first, set some limits on what we’re both comfortable with?  That way we don’t have to check in every two seconds.”

Stiles keeps his hand where it is, warm and heavy against Peter’s ribs, while he considers it. “I thought you said I could set the pace?”

“I did. And I meant it, too. But I don’t want there to be any more misunderstandings. I think we’ve had enough of those for now, don’t you?”

Stiles sighs and pulls his hand away. “ _Fiiiine._ But just so you know, once this talking bullshit is over, we are _so_ making out.”

 

* * *

 

 

They talk, a lot.

Peter apologizes properly for accusing Stiles of sleeping with Heather, and tells him that in the interests of fairness, if Stiles did want to experiment with someone his own age, Peter wouldn’t stand in his way. He struggles not to grit his teeth even as he says it, but he manages, just.  Stiles looks at him like he’s insane. “Why would I want someone else? I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Peter lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It killed him to even suggest Stiles might want somebody else, but he’s trying his best to let Stiles make his own choices, and it felt right to offer it. Stiles laughs at the relieved expression on Peter’s face and fondly calls him an idiot. “Just because you had your thing with lumber boy, doesn’t mean I want the same. That was different, because you’re older. I get that.”

“Lumber boy?” Peter raises a brow.

“You know who I mean.” Peter's aware that Stiles is being petty, refusing to dignify Chris with a name. Peter thinks he understands that a little better, after his unexpected bout of jealousy over Heather, so he doesn’t call him on it. But he’s surprised when Stiles adds, ”And everyone else, of course.”

Peter frowns. “Everyone else? What are you talking about?”

Stiles looks away as he mutters, “While you were away. In Australia. I know there must have been others.”

Peter cups Stiles’s face in his palm gently, and draws his head up so they’re looking at each other. “There’s been no one else, Stiles. I was dating you. It would have been wrong.”

Stlies’s mouth drops open, and he does a fair imitation of a goldfish for a few seconds. “ But – I mean, you’ve been gone for over a _year_. Are you telling me that whole time you didn’t – _a year_ , Peter?”

“Of course I didn’t. I was waiting for you.” Peter places a soft kiss on Stiles’s cheek, subtly scenting him at the same time, and he smiles to himself – Stiles is undeniably pleased about what he’s just heard. Peter murmurs in his ear, “Tell me, sweetheart, why would I want anyone else when I have a delicious young man like you waiting for me? The things I want to do to you baby, it’d make you hair curl.”

Stiles’s scent blooms rich and thick with arousal at that. “Don’t tease,” he grumbles half-heartedly, turning his head to catch Peter’s lips, and it only seems right then to kiss and scent and touch each other for a while. They pull apart long minutes later, both flushed and happy, and Stiles is the one who calls a halt to it, declaring that they’d better stop _right now_ if Peter wants there to be any more talking today. Peter grudgingly agrees, even though the cock throbbing in his jeans has a different opinion.

They talk about sex, about what they both want, Stiles burying his face in Peter’s ribs the way he always has when he’s shy around a subject. Peter notes idly that it’s getting harder and harder for Stiles to slot against his side – he’s definitely not a child anymore. Stiles, it turns out, wants to fool around all right, but he’s in no rush. “ I know you want me, now. That’s the most important thing. We can take our time.”  Stiles takes a deep breath before stating, “And I don’t want – I’m not ready to do _that_ , okay? I don’t want to go all the way, not yet. Maybe not for a long time.” Stiles lifts his head so Peter can see his face. He’s biting his lip, but he looks determined. Peter feels a rush of admiration for his soulmate right then – Stiles could easily just say yes to everything in an effort to please Peter, but it’s not what he wants, and he’s putting himself on the line by admitting that.

Peter kisses Stiles softly, before telling him, “Whatever you're ready for, whenever you're ready, Stiles. You get to set the pace. Tell me what you _do_ want, sweetheart.”

Stiles hesitates, and blushes scarlet before burying his head in Peter’s side again, confessing, “I wanna see you naked. I wanna see your – your cock.”

Peter laughs softly. “I think that can be arranged. Do I get to see you too?” He feels Stiles nodding vigorously against his side. It’s adorable.

It seems like the perfect time to stop talking and lay on the comforter and kiss and kiss and kiss, till Peter’s dizzy with it. Peter’s on his back, Stiles caging him on with an elbow either side of his head as he takes what he wants. Peter can smell the want coming off Stiles in waves, can feel the urgency in his kisses, in his touch. The change in Stiles now that he knows he’s wanted is frankly astounding. He’s much more confident, teasing and nuzzling at Peter, not holding back as he grinds down against him, making them both hard.

Peter’s fairly sure Stiles would be stripping him out of his clothes then and there, except they’re interrupted by a wet tongue up the side of Peter’s face as Scar decides to join in. Peter makes a disgusted sound and ducks to the side to avoid another lick, and Stiles laughs as he moves enough to let Peter sit up.

They decide that they may as well eat their lunch then, since dog drool is always and forever a mood killer. They talk and laugh about inconsequential things as they eat, but the sexual tension’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, threatening to burst through at any second. As they finish their meal, Peter takes great pleasure in hand feeding chunks of watermelon and strawberries to Stiles, watching as the juice drips down his chin, Stiles suckling on Peter’s fingertips to clean them.

If the smirk on his face is anything to go by, Stiles knows exactly the effect he’s having on Peter when he runs a pink tongue delicately over his lower lip. “So…” he says, with a suggestive tilt of his head. “There was talk of making out? Without the dog?”

Peter has Scar fed and watered and tied to a nearby tree, all inside two minutes. He ensures the dog can reach his water bowl before advancing on Stiles where he’s leaning against the car, pinning him in place as he murmurs, “Now, where were we?”

 

* * *

 

 They figure that the SUV needs detailing now anyway, so they may as well get it properly dirty. Stiles comes within thirty seconds of Peter getting a hand around his cock, and Peter doesn’t fare much better. It turns out the calluses Stiles has from rock climbing add a certain…something to his touch, and Peter makes a sound like a strangled cat when he comes, much to Stiles’s delight.

They lay in the backseat panting and grinning, kissing each other and murmuring endearments, and Peter lets himself hope that maybe, _maybe_ , things will be all right, after all. He’s disturbed from his musings by Stiles nudging him. “Hey, wolfy.” Peter hums, because it’s about all he can manage.  Stiles tilts his head back, leaving a long line of pale flesh right in front of Peter’s face. “Wanna leave your mark on me again?”

Peter doesn’t need to be asked twice. His enthusiastic suckling on the skin of Stiles’s neck leads to them both getting hard – Stiles is fourteen, and Peter hasn’t gotten laid in over a year. Peter jacks them off, one hand wrapped  round both their cocks, and afterwards Stiles  turns to him, looking slightly awestruck, and tells him, “Dude. I think I just saw the face of God.” Peter’s insufferably smug, and tells Stiles that if he thinks _that_ was good, just wait till Peter gets his mouth on him.  Stiles immediately extracts a promise from him for later that night, a promise Peter’s only too happy to make. Stiles spends an hour curled up against Peter’s bare chest, half way asleep, and Peter spends the time soaking in the scent of them as it mingles together and makes something new, something wonderful.

_Us._

* * *

 

 

It’s time to leave far too soon. They don’t want to, but they’ll have to if they want to stop in town and have the car cleaned – they both agree that there’s no way they can take it back in the state it’s in now, not if Peter ever wants to be allowed to drive it again.  Even without werewolf senses, Stiles agrees that it’s bad.

It’s late afternoon by the time they get home.  Ruth and John are sitting out on the porch swing having a beer together, and Peter knows they’ve been waiting for them. As Stiles gets out of the car, Ruth takes one look at the wide smile on his face and the new bruises up the side of his throat and snorts inelegantly. “Talk went well, then?” she asks, grinning.

Peter doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead draping an arm over Stiles’s shoulder and leading him inside, while a grinning Stiles winks and makes finger guns at his dad.

John watches them go, and groans. “We should never have encouraged them. There’ll be no stopping them now - we’ve created a monster.”

Ruth just laughs. “Give me this over the pining, any day.”

John can’t disagree with her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to heat up.  
> Peter's still an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, it's been a while, huh? In my defence, I got side tracked writing my Steter Secret Santa - what was going to be 2k of fluff somehow turned into 20K, and it consumed me until I got it finished.  
> Fair warning, we're starting to get busy at work, so the next few updates might be a little slower as well, but we'll get there.

 

Stiles practically struts out of the house on Monday morning, sporting a series of hickeys and a mile-wide grin. Peter can’t help but share the grin as he drives Stiles to school. They’re both slightly sleep deprived - they spent the night touching each other, Peter’s wolf side revelling in the new closeness between them. Stiles reminded Peter of his promise, and Peter doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything as intoxicating as the noises Stiles made when Peter blew him. Stiles wasn’t ready to return the favor, but Peter doesn’t mind. He was happy to rut mindlessly against Stiles’s hip while he scented him, coming with a groan and then massaging the mess into an amused Stiles’s skin.

He spends the day working at the gym, and after school Stiles bounces in the door with a wave. “Hey, Peter’ he singsongs out, stopping off for a kiss before ducking into the change room and coming out in a tank top and shorts. Derek throws Peter a judgemental look when the extent of Stiles’s hickeys is revealed, but Peter just shrugs. “He asked for it.”

Stiles overhears them. “I know what your wolfy ass likes. You get hot marking me up. I bet if you could get away with peeing in a circle around me, you’d do it.” With that, he makes sure his safety clips are attached and starts scrambling up the wall.

Peter watches for a moment, distracted. He sees Derek watching as well, and his possessive side flares. “Of course, I wouldn’t have to mark my claim if my own nephew wasn’t undercutting me,” he says quietly.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play innocent with me. I heard about your offer, Derek, and I don’t appreciate it. Kindly don’t touch my things.”

Derek turns an impressive scowl on Peter. “ _Your things?_ _Seriously?_ Stiles isn’t a fucking vase,” he hisses back. “I offered to step up as a mate because Stiles was on the verge of a breakdown, and it was all I could think of to distract him. But I’d be happy if I _ever_ found a soulmate half as amazing as he is.”

Peter’s taken aback at the vehemence of Derek’s reply. He knows Derek and Stiles have grown close, but this level of protectiveness is unexpected.  A voice floats down from above them. “Hey, do I have to come down there and break you two up? Or is this some wolf bullshit and I should ignore it?”

Derek answers without breaking eye contact with Peter. “Wolf bullshit. Peter’s got a jealous streak.”

Peter looks down, embarrassed at being called out. “You’re right, of course. My apologies, nephew. I know you’d never overstep.” He calls up to Stiles, ”Ignore me, sweetheart. The wolf doesn’t want to share you, that’s all.”

Stiles’s laugh rings out. “Sweet. I’m worth fighting over! Tell you what, after I finish here, I’ll let you get all up in my scent. I’ll be nice and sweaty, the way your wolfy ass likes.”

Peter can’t help the happy shiver that runs through him in anticipation. Derek catches it, and his expression softens. “Do you know how lucky you are, Uncle Peter? To have someone who understands the wolf? To have even _found_ your soulmate?”

Peter smiles softly. “I know.”

Peter’s aware that Derek’s a romantic at heart, is waiting and hoping for the day a name will bloom on his wrist. But he also knows that in the meantime, his nephew doesn’t miss any opportunity to have some fun.  And given how Derek looks, the opportunities are plentiful. His nephew’s behavior reminds Peter vaguely of Chris Argent, if he’s honest. Derek bumps shoulders with him, catching him off balance and grinning as Peter staggers for a second before finding his feet. “Treat him right, Uncle Peter, or you’ll have me to answer to. And I can put you on your ass if I need to.”

Peter looks up at Derek, at the wall of muscle his nephew’s become since he went away, and he doesn’t doubt it. ”I’ll cherish him, Derek. You have my word.” Derek doesn’t reply, just gives a satisfied nod, and then, completely ignoring Peter, starts to coach Stiles through the next level of the climb.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Peter’s finished running his last client through his program, Stiles has finished his workout as well, and true to his word, he drags Peter into the change rooms and lets him scent him in all his pungent glory. As Peter sniffs deeply, head buried in the crook of Stiles’s neck, Stiles asks, “Were you really trying to warn Derek off? I could only hear some of what you were saying, but it sounded like it.”

Peter lets out a small groan. “I might have overreacted to what you told me about Derek offering to be with you.” Peter feels Stiles’s whole body shake with laughter.

“Idiotwolf. As if I’d really give you up. I mean, Derek’s pretty, but he’s not _mine_ , not like you are.”

“I know,” Peter mumbles. He still feels better for hearing Stiles say it, though. He keeps his arms wrapped around Stiles’s neck and lets himself soak in the deep contentment that comes from being close. “And you’re mine. When we get home, I’m going to remind you of that.”

“When we get home, I have an assignment to finish,” Stiles reminds him. “After that though…”

Peter presses in closer. “After that, pup…”

There’s the sound of a throat clearing, and Peter pulls back, startled. He hadn’t even noticed Tom approaching. Tom looks at the pair of them and sighs. “Stiles, if you could stop trying to seduce _my staff,_ that’d be great. There’s a time and a place, you two. And this isn’t it.’

Stiles delivers a completely unconvincing apology, which earns him Tom’s eyebrows of disapproval. They're even more impressive than Derek's. “I’m taking you home. Peter, you can supervise the gym for the last hour and then lock up.” Peter nods quickly, his arousal firmly dampened by the judgemental look from his father.

Stiles gives him a quick kiss and a wave, before heading home. ”I’ll be done with that assignment by the time you get back,” he whispers in Peter’s ear.

Peter grins at the thought.

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner that evening, Tom walks past Peter and Stiles where they’re sitting on the porch swing, Stiles straddling Peter’s lap as they trade lazy kisses and Peter runs his hand up and down Stiles’s back. “Having fun, boys?” he asks with a knowing smile. Stiles just shoots him a thumbs up, not bothering to take his lips off Peter’s.

Watching them, so obviously hungry for each other, stirs something in Tom, and he hums under his breath as he goes inside to find Ruth. She’s sitting at the table scrolling through her laptop, and he puts his hands on her shoulders, still humming. She stops what she’s doing, relaxing back into his touch. He bends down to whisper in her ear, “Have you seen the lovebirds outside?”

“Mhmm. They’re so cute. As soon as Stiles dried the last dish, he practically dragged Peter out there by his ear. Mind you, he didn’t have to drag too hard.” She pushes the laptop away and tilts her head back, exposing her throat. Tom growls deeply at the sight and Ruth smirks. “Remember the days when you used to drag me off to have some fun? I miss those days.”

Tom kisses down the side of her neck. “Who says they’re over? I could drag you away right now.”

Ruth gives a tiny shiver, and her voice goes husky. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tom pulls her out of her chair and throws her over his shoulder, just like when they were first courting and he was a young wolf showing off his strength, and Ruth squeals with delight, just like she did the very first time he manhandled her. She still loves it, Tom knows.  He carries her up the stairs, dropping her on the bed with a deep growl and  kicking the bedroom door firmly closed.

 

* * *

 

 

The one downside of Stiles sharing Peter’s bed again is his alarm blaring at 5.30 a.m. every second day. Stiles will flail wildly as he wakes, and then drag himself out of bed muttering. He’s not quiet as he prepares to go for his run with Derek, and it means Peter’s awake for the day. He’ll normally lay in bed waiting for Stiles to come home flushed and sweaty, bitching about how Derek’s evil and heartless. His scent belies him though - Stiles smells of satisfaction and adrenaline.

After a week and a half of watching his boy come home loose-limbed and happy, Peter sits up in bed and asks, “Sweetheart, would you mind if I came as well?” He doesn’t want to intrude, especially after making a fool of himself already over Stiles and Derek’s friendship, but this is something he’d like to do.

Stiles beams at the suggestion. “Oh my god, yes. Wanna watch you in running shorts.” He waggles his eyebrows, making Peter laugh. Peter drags himself out of bed and gets ready, and they’re both waiting when Derek comes jogging up to the front door. Derek doesn’t seem phased by his presence. Instead he just nods, before telling Stiles, ”We’re going the long track today. Try and keep up.”

“I _hate_ the long track,” Stiles whines, but Derek just laughs.

“That’s why we’re doing it – it challenges you. People pay a fortune to be trained by me Stiles, so stop complaining.” It’s true – the fees at We’re Wolves are ridiculous, but the results people achieve make it worth it.

Peter and Derek flank Stiles on either side, and set out at a steady jog, just to warm up. It’s still and quiet, and Peter likes the peace of it – for the first five minutes, before Stiles starts. “So, does this mean you two are going to try and outdo each other? Because my money’s on Derek.”

“Rude,” huffs Peter. “I thought you loved me?”

“I do love you.” Hearing makes Peter’s heart beat a little faster. “Doesn’t mean Der won’t kick your ass.”  Peter speeds up a little at that, until he’s just ahead of Derek.

Derek, though, just keeps up his steady jog. “Nice try, Stiles. But stop trying to distract me. In fact, if you’re talking, we’re not running fast enough.” Derek picks up the pace suddenly, and Stiles mumbles under his breath before joining him. Peter’s quick to catch up, unfazed by the burst of speed. The head out into the preserve and down what they call the long trail, a twisting, winding thing full of hills and slopes and sharp turns. Peter can see why Stiles hates it, if he’s honest.

Peter’s in reasonably good shape just by virtue of being a Were, so he has no problem keeping pace. What surprises him is the stamina that Stiles shows. He’s breathing heavily to be sure, face flushed and sweat dripping off him, but he keeps up. Peter knows Derek’s not running anywhere near as fast as he could, but he’s still running at speed, and they cover a lot of ground. The quiet in the preserve is broken by the scuff of shoes against the dirt, the crack of branches under foot, and the odd grumbled, “ _I hate you, Derek_.”

Derek just huffs out a laugh. “If you’re bitching, we’re still not running fast enough,” he says, and speeds up again.

When they reach the end of the trail, Stiles bends over and grabs his thighs, breathing raggedly and holding up a hand. “Just let me…get my breath…” he manages.

Derek grins. “Five minutes, then we head back. And this time we go _fast._ ”

Stiles groans. “Why do I do this again?”

Peter runs a hand down Stiles’s back. “Because you enjoy it?”

“Lies. Derek’s torturing me and you don’t even care.” Stiles tries to make sad eyes, but he can’t quite manage it, a grin twitching across his face.

“There there, poor baby,” Peter says deadpan, earning a chuckle from Derek.

They head back and Peter can still hear Stiles’s heart thundering in his chest as he runs. He’s not sure what possesses him to say it, except perhaps some desire to show off, but when they’re about a mile from home, he nudges Derek. “Race you. Loser buys breakfast.”

“Oh, you’re _on_.” And with that Derek takes off. Peter watches his retreating back for a split second before chasing after him. It’s not as easy to catch Derek as he thought it would be – Peter’s made a fundamental error in judgement, he realizes. He’s assumed that because Derek’s all muscle, he won’t have speed, but he’s misjudged. Peter finds he's having to really push himself to even get close to Derek, let alone pass him. He can hear Stiles cackling in the background as Derek pulls further and further ahead. Peter lets his wolf have it’s head, calling on his supernatural speed in one last effort to best his nephew, but Derek’s obviously done the same, and the gap between them keeps widening. By the time Peter rounds the last corner, gasping for breath, Derek’s leaning against the post marking the beginning of the trail, arms folded over his chest as he looks at his watch, grinning from ear to ear. “There you are, old man. I wondered if you’d got lost.”

Peter takes a minute to catch his breath, flipping Derek the bird as he does so. Stiles, surprisingly, isn’t that far behind him, even though he’s wheezing when he rounds the corner. “That.” he manages, before stopping for a moment to drain his water bottle. He tries again. “That was insane.”

Derek’s still grinning. ”You did well, Stiles. And now Peter’s buying us breakfast.”

Stiles perks up at that, and gives Peter a peck on the cheek. “Aw thanks, babe. So generous.”

Peter reaches up and tangles a hand in Stiles’s hair, holding him there while he scents him and then kisses him properly. Stiles makes a tiny whimpering sound when Peter lets him go, and Peter smiles, sharklike. “You can show me your appreciation later,” he murmurs. Stiles hums in agreement, and leans in for another kiss, this one slow and deep.

“Not to be a wet blanket,” Derek says, being a total wet blanket, ”But we gotta get moving. Good run, Stiles. You’re getting faster.”

“Mhmm,” Stiles manages, lips still pressed against Peter’s. Derek rolls his eyes, but Peter just smiles into the kiss.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a common sight, Stiles and Peter wrapped around each other. They’re insatiable. Everyone learns to knock first before opening the door to any room the two of them are in. John gives Stiles a stern lecture after walking in on the pair of them grinding against each other breathlessly, laid out on the old couch in the workshop. “The workshop, Stiles? Really? Come on, kiddo. Let me have _one_ safe space in the house!”

Peter knows they’re pushing the boundaries, but he seems to lose all restraint, all sense of propriety, when Stiles is nearby. A whispered suggestion in his ear, and suddenly it seems _perfectly_ reasonable to rut against each other and sneak a hand into Stiles’s jeans while they’re alone in the laundry. It’s as if he used all his reserves of willpower resisting Stiles up to this point, and now it’s a lost cause.

Not that he cares. Being with Stiles like this is everything Peter dreamed of and more. Peter can get him to make the best noises, tiny whimpers and pleas, and Stiles doesn’t even try to hold back. He begs Peter shamelessly for more, and Peter’s happy to deliver. He won’t deny, it’s been embarrassing once or twice when someone’s walked in on them in a compromising position, ( the walk in pantry was definitely a bad idea, he’ll give his dad that), but mostly, the adults just chuckle and walk out again. Peter’s so caught up in the thrill of being allowed to have this with Stiles that he doesn’t really think about how public they’ve become with their affections until he’s leaving work one day and his dad says, “Come up to the office after dinner, son. We need to talk.”

Peter nods his agreement, and promptly spends the next hour freaking out. Tom didn’t seem angry, but it must be serious, to be involve the office. It occurs to Peter then that maybe he and Stiles have crossed a line somewhere. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he _knows_ they have. And he can’t even lay the blame on Stiles – they’re as bad as each other.

There was that one night when Stiles had decided that he wanted to explore, and he’d laid Peter out on the bed and spent half an hour kissing up and down his chest and stomach, tugging at his nipples with his teeth and causing Peter to squeak embarrassingly. Then, he’d discovered that _one_ tender spot just near the top of Peter’s hipbone that made Peter writhe and whine in pleasure when he licked it, and the little bastard had then proceeded to bite and suck there until he managed to leave the barest traces of a bruise. Peter had been pleading and moaning loudly by the time Stiles wrapped a hand around his cock and it had only taken a handful of strokes before Peter was coming, cursing loudly as he did so.

They’d been lying there, Peter still panting, when both their phones had pinged. They’d looked at each other warily, and Stiles had reached over and picked his up. When he read the text he went bright red, but also started laughing hysterically. He held the phone out to Peter, unable to speak.

The text was from Ruth.

**Soundproofing only works when you close the door, boys.**

Sure enough, when they looked over, the door was open, barely half an inch, but enough for the sounds they’d been making to travel out of the room.

It had been just Stiles’s phone that chimed next, and he’d made a choking sound when he read it.

**Is it the spot near the hip? Tom has that spot.** **😉**

Peter had groaned while Stiles hooted with laughter. “We didn’t close the door. How did we not close the door?”

Stiles stopped laughing long enough to say, “I blame you. Distracting me with your pretty muscles and general awesomeness.”

“Mmm. I could see that would be distracting, “ Peter smirked, his embarrassment fading at the scent of arousal pouring off his mate. He got out of bed and padded over to the door, closing it firmly. Then he turned back to Stiles, who was laying there, hard and naked and _oh so tempting_. “Well, since we can’t show our faces downstairs for at least five years, what can we possibly do?” He'd climbed on the end and crawled up, slow and predatory.

Stiles had grinned widely. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

So yeah, Peter thinks. Maybe they’ve pushed their luck.

 

* * *

 

 

The last thing Peter expects when he steps into the office is for Tom to be smiling and holding a bunch of keys. He throws it to Peter when he sits down, and Peter catches the bundle, looking at it with interest. “Keys to the three empty pack houses. Choose one.”  Peter looks at his father blankly. Tom leans back in his chair, one leg folded atop the other. “Peter, you’ve been living independently since you were nineteen.  I thought maybe you’d like to move into one of the pack houses, have a little more independence. And privacy,” he adds pointedly.

And that’s – unexpected. It takes Peter a minute to catch up, but when he does, he breathes a small sigh of relief. He's not here for a dressing down after all. He nods at Tom as he turns the keys absently over in his hands, even as he turns the proposal over in his mind. “I’d like that. It’s an adjustment, getting used to living at home again. Not that I don’t love being home with you and Mom,” he hastens to add, but Tom’s nodding his understanding.

“You’re an adult. You need your own space, especially now Stiles is getting older.”

“Exactly.”

“So after dinner, we’ll go and look, see which one takes your fancy. My money’s on you liking the one two down from Talia’s - it has the best bathroom, and a nice porch.”

Peter knows the house he means. “Probably. Can Stiles come and look too?”

“Of course he can. But he won’t be moving in with you, let’s get that clear.” Tom’s expression is serious.

“No, I know. But it’s Stiles. We both know he’ll be over there a lot. And he will move in, eventually. I think it’s best if I get his opinion.”

Tom smiles at that. “You’re learning, son.”

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner, Tom cocks a brow at Peter, and says “Stiles? Come for a walk with Peter and I?”

Stiles looks between them. “Where are we going?”

Peter grins, “It’s a surprise, pup.”

“Good surprise?” Stiles asks, hesitant.

“Good surprise,” Tom answers, dragging Stiles into a rough one-armed hug. “Do I ever give you any other kind?”

They walk the half mile up the road to where the other houses are nestled along the edge of the preserve. Stiles looks between them, confused. “What’s going on?”

“I’m looking at moving into one of the pack houses, sweetheart. And I wanted you to help me choose, since you’ll probably be spending a fair bit of time here.” Peter watches Stiles carefully, hoping his boy doesn’t get upset that Peter’s leaving him again, so to speak.

Stiles though, grins delightedly. “You’re getting a place of your own? And you’re actually asking my opinion?” He peers exaggeratedly at the sky.

“What on earth are you looking for?”

Stiles shrugs. “Oh, y’know, flying pigs.”

Peter shoves at him playfully. “Brat. Tell me again why I love you?”

“Because I’m awesome, obviously.” He turns to Tom, then. “I know I won’t be moving in, not yet, but do you think I’ll be allowed sleepovers, Alpha? Just for scenting?” Peter has to admire the way Stiles attempts to look innocent, while appealing to Tom’s wolf.

Tom though, shakes his head. “That’s not my call. You’ll have to ask your father when he gets home later.” He ignores Stiles’ pout, instead turning to Peter and rubbing his hands together. “Let’s choose a house.”

 

* * *

 

As predicted, Peter chooses the house with the big bath tub and the wraparound porch. Or rather, Stiles and Peter choose it together. Tom hands Peter the keys with a flourish. “All I ask is that you keep it in good condition for the pack.” Peter nods, because that’s a given – that’s how pack houses work. Nobody pays rent, but they do maintain and improve the house. If and when Peter moves on, Tom will expect the house to be in as good, if not better, condition than it is now.

Stiles waits impatiently for his dad to get home and pounces on John immediately when he walks in the door, but John holds a hand up. “Whatever it is, it can wait. I need beer, then I need food. Then we can talk.”

Stiles goes to the fridge and gets John a beer, then gets his dinner out of the oven. He puts the plate and the bottle in front of John and sits across from the table from him, resting his head on his arms and watching intently as John eats, eyes wide and hopeful.  John ignores his son’s puppy dog eyes and takes his time with dinner, finishing his beer and even getting a second one while Stiles squirms. Finally, he sighs and says, ”Let me guess. Peter’s moving out, and you’re angling to go and stay over.”

Stiles tilts his head at that. “How did you know?”

“What, you think Tom and I don’t talk to each other where you boys are concerned? I knew this was in the wind.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Stiles looks at his dad pleadingly. ”So, does that mean I can stay there?”

“You can stay over one night a week, on the weekend.”

But dad, that’s not -”

“One,” John repeats firmly. But his eyes crinkle as he smiles and adds, “Home by ten the other nights. And when it’s vacation time, you can stay there two extra nights during the week as long as Peter says it’s okay. It’s his house, remember.”

Stiles’s face lights up and he moves to throw his arms around his dad in a hug. “Thanks, Pops.”

John hugs his son back. “Any time, kiddo. Like I’m going to keep you two apart. Although, don’t think I won’t reconsider if I find out your grades are slipping.”

Stiles flaps a hand dismissively. “Never gonna happen. I’m acing most of my classes, you know that.”

“Mhhm. Got your brains from Claudia, obviously.” Stiles squeezes his dad a little tighter at the mention of his mother, and John squeezes back, blinking once or twice.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles’s fifteenth birthday party is a revelation for Peter. When he asks Stiles how many people are coming to the barbecue, Stiles just shrugs and says, “Just my friends,” so Peter expects maybe ten, maybe fifteen people at the most. He thinks the marquee Tom and Derek are setting up is overkill, honestly.

He’s not prepared for the army of teenagers that descend on the place, both male and female, all of them hugging Stiles and slapping him on the back and wishing him happy birthday as they hand over an assortment of gifts. The stream of people is neverending, but they all know Stiles, and he appears glad to see them all.

The weather’s turned out warm and clear, so Tom directs them all out into the backyard where it’s been decorated for the occasion and coolers full of soda cans are waiting, and Stiles puts on a playlist of ridiculous pop music in the background. Peter takes in the sheer amount of people, his mouthing hanging open. He feels rather than hears someone approaching, and turns to find Derek watching him with an amused expression. “Stiles is kinda popular. You knew that, right?”

“I mean, I knew, but I didn’t – he really is, isn’t he?” Peter breathes, something like wonder in his voice.

Derek bumps shoulders with him. “He’s a decent kid. He’s funny and he’s smart. He’s loyal as all hell. And he’s part of the Hale pack – that alone wins him a heap of brownie points. There are at least five kids here because they want in with the pack, and Stiles knows it. But he pretends he doesn’t, and lets them hang around anyway.”

Peter’s brow furrows. He doesn’t like the thought of Stiles being used like that. Derek catches his expression, and snorts. “Settle, Uncle Grumpy. They’re nice enough kids, or they wouldn’t be here. Besides, it’s kinda fun watching them trail round after the Alpha like he’s suddenly going to offer them the bite because they bought him a slice of cake.”

Peter watches, fascinated, as several of the young men do, indeed, try and ply Tom with food and drink. Tom’s always polite, but it’s obvious he knows exactly what’s going on. Stiles and Scott are sitting together laughing at god knows what, and Stiles looks relaxed and happy in a way that makes Peter’s breath catch. He wants him to always look like that.

He makes his way over, just in time to catch the end of some story about Scott and Jackson and a lizard in his backpack – he’s not sure he wants to know the full story, honestly.he knows that Stiles isn't his, not today. Today he's public property. It'll be Peter's turn later. He leaves them to it after pressing a kiss to Stiles’s forehead, and goes to find his own company, settling in with Talia for a while. Despite the big age gap between them, he and Talia have always gotten along, and it’s nice to spend some time catching up properly.

The day’s an unqualified success. There are water bombs, a scratch game of touch football where the werewolves dominate completely, and the general tomfoolery that happens when you have forty odd teenagers in one place. More burgers and hotdogs are consumed than Peter ever thought possible. As late afternoon drifts into evening, the guests take their leave, slapping Stiles on the back and telling him “Good party, bro.”

Peter watches, amused,  as Derek leans in awfully close with one of the men who arrives to collect a stray teenager - an older brother, if Peter has to guess. He sees a discreet kiss on the cheek, a few whispered words, and a nod. It looks like his nephew has plans for later.

Once most of the guests have left Peter takes Stiles by the hand and leads him to a secluded corner behind a couple of trees, a spot that’s almost private. There’s quiet music playing, and Peter takes Stiles by the hand. “Dance with me, birthday boy?”

Stiles grins, and pulls Peter close. “Fair warning, I can’t dance.”

“Sway with me, then,” Peter amends, wrapping his arms around Stiles’s neck. Stiles is humming tunelessly with the music, and it’s nice, soothing.  Peter leans his head against Stiles’s chest, hears the steady, strong beat of his heart, and lets himself get lost in it, just for a while. Stiles wasn’t lying – he really can’t dance, but Peter doesn’t care, just moves his hands to rest on Stiles’s hips and guides him as they move.  Stiles must pick up on Peter’s mood, because for a change, he doesn’t try to make it anything more than it is, content to just rock back and forth.  The song comes to an end, and Peter pulls back and smiles. “First dance,” he says quietly. “Saved it for you, sweetheart.”

Stiles gets a soft look on his face, even as he murmurs, “Sappywolf.”

Peter doesn't deny it.

 

* * *

 

 They start to help with the cleanup, but Ruth soon waves them away, insisting that it’s Stiles’s birthday. John nods in agreement. “Go on you two, we’ve got this.”  He gives Stiles one last hug before shooing him away with Peter.

When they get upstairs, Peter pulls out a gift box. It’s not very big, but Stiles still accepts it eagerly. When Stiles opens the box, he pulls out a keyring with a set of keys on it. He looks at Peter, questioning. “Keys to our new house,” Peter explains. “I know you can’t move in, and I know your dad’s set limits, but I wanted you to know you’re welcome anytime. It’s your place, too.”

Stiles’s face does something complicated, and Peter’s struck by a moment of doubt. It had seemed like a good idea when he’d thought of it, racking his brains for something to give Stiles, but now he wonders, is it not really a gift? Will Stiles see it as condescending? He doesn’t have long to doubt himself though, before Stiles throws himself into his arms and hugs the shit out of him.

“Thank you! This is –“ Stiles breaks off mid-sentence, and Peter’s surprised to see tears in the corner of his eyes. “I sort of thought I’d have to wait for you to invite me, and I might be an insecure idiot who thought maybe you didn’t want me around, and that’s why you were moving out,” he admits lowly.

Peter tangles a hand in Stiles hair and pulls him back, so he can kiss him, softly, deeply. “Sweetheart, you’re right. You are an insecure idiot. Of course I want to see you. Why would you think otherwise?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t - not really. Only sometimes. Like, when I can’t sleep, and I have 3 a.m. brain.”

Peter’s  brow furrows. “3 a.m. brain?”

”3 a.m. brain. It’s like, 3 p.m. brain knows that I did well on that math test I’ve been worrying about, right?” Peter nods. “But 3 a.m. brain will try and tell me I misunderstood all the questions and I’m gonna end up repeating a year.”

Peter gets it. He kisses Stiles again before murmuring “ 3 a.m. brain is an asshole. Don’t listen to it.”

Stiles grins. “I normally don’t. Except at 3 a.m.” He considers the keys still in his hand. “What if you’re not home? Can I still come over?”

Peter thinks about it, about Stiles in his space, his scent getting ingrained into the fabric of his couch, into the very walls of his house, and he can’t help the satisfied rumble that come from his chest.  Stiles lets out a startled laugh. “My wolf likes that idea a lot, baby.” 

“I can tell,” Stiles smirks. And then they get distracted from talking, because it’s Stiles’ birthday, and Peter’s told him that tonight, he’ll do anything Stiles wants. It turns out what Stiles wants is to lay Peter out and get him to make those noises again while he torments the sensitive spot on his hip, and after that, he wants Peter to put a finger inside him. “Just one,” he whispers, face flushed. “Just to see how it feels.”

Peter’s never been so grateful for everything he learned from Chris Argent as he is right now, as he takes his time teasing his baby open slowly, drawing out sounds of pleasure as he rubs gently against the opening, softening the muscle, making sure Stiles is ready before easing an elegant fingertip inside.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “Is that it? Because I don’t see what all the - _oh shit!_ ” Stiles arches up when Peter twists his finger around and brushes against his prostate. “Holy fuck, do that again!” he demands breathlessly, and Peter does.

“You like that, sweetheart?” Peter moves his finger in and out in a smooth motion, making sure to brush against that spot. Stiles nods, head thrown back and a hand wrapped around his dick, tugging at himself frantically. Peter thinks he might just have rendered Stiles speechless.

Peter adds a second finger, and Stiles’s silence doesn’t last as he grinds back against Peter’s hand while he quietly chants _ohgodohgodohgod._ Between what Peter’s doing and his own efforts, it doesn’t take long before Stiles is spilling over his hand with a breathless cry. Peter can’t help it, he gives in to the wolf and massages the sticky mess into Stiles’s skin, and Stiles is too wrung out to object. They lay there for a moment, and then Stiles makes a satisfied sound. “Okay, so that was amazing.” He rolls over and kisses Peter, before his hand trails down to where Peter’s still hard. He takes Peter in hand, and it looks like he’s considering something. He finally says, “I can’t see this fitting in there anytime soon, just so you know.”

Peter laughs softly. “No rush, sweetheart. Besides, maybe you’ll want to try it the other way round first, just to get a feel for it, so to speak.”

Stiles’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god, Peter, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Peter grins, dark and dangerous. “Just say the word.” Stiles lunges in for a kiss that’s hot and filthy and full of want, which Peter takes as confirmation that Stiles is in favor of the idea.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles’s side of the bed is cold when Peter wakes the next morning, and he has a vague memory of Stiles nudging him to tell him he was going for a run. He dresses, drawn by the sound of voices and the smell of coffee. He walks downstairs just in time to hear Tom saying  “ – think I’d ever give them the bite. Mind you, I’d bite Scott, if he asked.”

“Maybe. I mean, his asthma’s pretty bad,” Stiles’s voice floats out of the kitchen. “As long as you don’t bite him before you bite me, Alpha.”

Peter walks in to see his father ruffling Stiles hair and saying, ”Never, son. You know that.” He stares dumbly for a minute as he tries to make sense of what he’s heard.

“You’re taking the bite?”

Stiles turns at the sound of his voice, and his face lights up. “Peter!”

“You’re taking the bite, Stiles?” Peter repeats.

Stiles gets out of his chair and walks over, kissing Peter on the cheek. “Um, yeah. I was going to tell you when we picked a time, but I guess you already know now. Ta dah,” he offers, making lacklustre jazz hands.

Peter closes his eyes and imagines it, Stiles running under the moon, strong and fearless and beautiful. He can feel the smile spreading over his face. “You’re going to be a formidable wolf, sweetheart. It’s wonderful.” He pulls Stiles into a tight hug, and Stiles hugs him right back.

“I thought you’d like the idea. We’re not sure exactly when though, are we Alpha? Either this summer or next.”

Tom makes an affirmative sound, and Peter nods. “It’s not something you want to rush into. Think about it long and hard, Stiles, because there’s no going back from this. Take all the time you need.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh against Peter’s ear. “Peter, I’ve thought about it, trust me. I said yes to the bite when I was twelve.”

Peter pulls back, shock settling in his gut and twisting, hard. “ _What?_ ”

“Alpha asked Dad and I, not long after I hurt myself on the saw. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a wolf, always. It was just a matter of waiting till I was older.”

“You never mentioned the offer before now,” Peter says stiffly, and it stings, that Stiles didn’t think to share this with him. He feels excluded. “You should have asked my opinion.”

Stiles’s eyebrows raise. “Should have?” He pulls away. “Peter, are you sulking about this because I didn’t ask you first?”

Stiles glares at him, and Peter recognizes the look. Stiles has the cheek to be annoyed at him, though Peter can’t imagine why. _He’s_ the injured party here. Peter can’t believe this was all decided without a thought being given to what he might say. “I should have had some input. It’s an important decision, and twelve’s far too young to make that kind of call without advice.”

Stiles folds his arms over his chest. “ _For your information,”_ he hisses, “I did have advice. I had the advice _of_ _my dad,_ and the advice _of_ _my Alpha_ , who both know a hell of a lot more than you do. We’ve talked about it a lot, while you were away. And it’s my life, and my choice, and this is one decision that has _nothing to do with you.”_  Stiles pushes past Peter and storms out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

Peter’s left standing there, with his father arching a brow at him. “Well, you made a mess of that,” Tom observes mildly.

Peter’s still in shock at the way Stiles reacted, and maybe he’s more hurt than he’d like to admit, which is probably why he’s unwise enough to say the first thing that comes into his head. “ _What in hell_ were you thinking, offering the bite to a kid?” he snaps.

Tom stands up suddenly and strides over so he’s right next to Peter, looming over him. “I was _thinking,_ that as the Alpha of this pack, I know how to run it without interference from a jumped up little know it all. Problem?”

Peter should do the smart thing and apologize, but he’s never been particularly smart when he’s angry. “The bite isn’t something you just offer to someone on the spur of the moment! You should have talked it over with me first, let me know what you were planning.” 

Tom crowds in closer and growls, low in his chest. “Are you telling me what to do, _pup_?”

Peter squirms under Tom’s gaze, but he’s still stupid enough to blurt out, “You should have told me! I’m his soulmate!” Tom’s close, too close, and Peter shoves hard against his chest, angry and frustrated and belligerent.

Tom doesn’t budge, but suddenly Peter finds himself grabbed by the back of the neck, turned and shoved forwards till the side of his face against is pressed hard against the wall, and Tom’s right up close behind him, his breath hot against the nape of Peter’s neck. Peter hears the snick of claws,  feels them pressed against his throat, hard enough that they’re sinking in, just barely. He can’t move, doesn’t try.  He’s suddenly aware that he’s in deep, deep trouble.

“ _You will not challenge my authority in my own home, you understand?”_ Tom’s voice is a deep growl, and Peter feels the command right down to his very bones. His whole body goes limp under the onslaught of his Alpha’s power, and he whimpers.

Tom holds him there for maybe half a minute, the room silent except for the sound of Peter’s harsh breathing. Finally, he manages to get out, “Sorry, Alpha,” and Tom lets him go, shoving him none too gently across the room.

“Office. Now.” The command is curt, and Peter doesn’t even think of disobeying. He walks up the stairs with his head hanging low, still reeling from the effects of Tom asserting his control.  He doesn’t think he’s seen his father this angry in a long time. As soon as he walks into the office, he does the only thing he can think of to redeem himself. He drops to his knees next to the desk and tilts his head back, exposing his throat, submitting fully to his Alpha’s authority.  He stays there, eyes closed even after he hears Tom enter the room.  Eventually, Tom places a hand under Peter’s chin and draws him up so he’s standing. Tom leans in and places his fangs lightly against the soft skin of Peter’s neck, before telling him, “Sit.”

Peter sits, eyes downcast. Tom surveys him silently. The longer he stares, the worse Peter feels, and the more the gravity of his offence sinks in. Not only did he _challenge his Alpha_ , he did it over something he had no say in, and he dared lay hands on him as well.  He wonders what penalty Tom will impose, and is quietly thankful that his father’s not given to physical punishment like some packs he’s heard of.

Finally, just when Peter’s nerves are stretched out thin, Tom speaks.  “So. You came in halfway through a private conversation, pitched a fit about what you overheard, and then you had the _unbridled_ _cheek_ to challenge me about it, before I’d even finished my damned coffee, asking _what the hell_ I was thinking, offering Stiles the bite?”

Peter weighs his words carefully before he speaks. “I was out of line, Alpha, and I’m sorry. Your decisions aren’t any of my business.”

“You’re damned right they aren’t. But I’ll explain this one to you, because it’s Stiles, and I know you care about him.” Peter dares to look up. Tom’s expression has softened a little, which Peter takes as a good sign.

“Thank you, Alpha.”

“The bite is a gift, you know that.” Peter nods – it’s what they’ve always been taught, that the bite is a blessing, not a curse. “As Alpha, it’s my privilege and responsibility to offer the bite to those who will benefit from it.  And you know it’s not something I’d ever offer lightly. But Stiles is _pack,_ he and John both. And I _like_ Stiles, okay? So after he hurt himself, I asked him formally. The last thing I wanted was for something to happen to him, and not have permission to turn him.”

Peter’s quiet for a moment. “I guess that makes sense. Did you know he’d accept?”

Tom nods. “Stiles isn’t subtle about what he wants – he’s talked about being a Were since he moved in, so I was fairly certain he’d say yes. Which is why I asked him _with his father present,_ and why I made sure he knew he had to wait till he was older. Believe it or not, son, I do know what I’m doing.”

Peter can’t help asking, “But why keep it secret?”

Tom sighs. “I didn’t keep it a secret. It just wasn’t my place to tell you. What happens in here stays in here, you know that. As to why Stiles didn’t say something, you’d have to ask him - assuming he’s talking to you anytime soon. But as far as I know, he wanted it to be a surprise, tell you when it was closer to being a reality. You ruined this for him, Peter. It was a big deal for him, telling you, and you made it about you.”

 Fuck.

Peter feels his stomach dip at the reminder that it’s not only Tom who’s upset with him. He still has a whole lot of apologising to do. Tom sighs. “I _should_ kick your ass just for being an idiot, but I honestly don’t think I need to.  Stiles will probably make you suffer enough. But let’s be clear – the bite is mine to offer to whoever I see fit. Hell, if I offer to bite _Scott_ , you don’t get to say jack shit about it except ‘Welcome to the pack.’ Got it?”

“Yes, Alpha.”

Tom steeples his fingers under his chin and hums. “Now, there should be a fitting penalty for challenging me and ruining my nice peaceful Sunday breakfast. How about for the next fortnight, you run my 5 a.m. high intensity cardio class? That seems fair.” Peter holds back his groan – that class is a nightmare to run. Instead, he nods obediently.

Tom gets up from his chair and comes over to Peter, pulling him up and into a strong hug. Peter’s wolf craves the approval and touch of his Alpha, and he leans into the embrace. They stand there for a long time, both of their wolves soaking up the touch, before Tom finally lets him go and shoos him out the office.  “I’d suggest you go and find your boy, and see exactly how angry he is.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles, it turns out, isn’t angry.

He’s hurt, and that’s a thousand times worse.

Peter gets onto the bed next to Stiles, and bumps their shoulders together. “Sweetheart? I’m sorry I said you should have asked me about the bite. You’re right, of course. It’s completely your decision.” Stiles doesn’t answer, staring fixedly at his phone screen. Peter hears the tinny sound effects of some game. Normally Stiles mutes the music, because he knows Peter’s wolf ears struggle with the electronic noises, but today he turns the music up and keeps playing. Peter’s tempted to leave Stiles to brood. But he was wrong, and he knows he needs to apologize, doesn’t want this to fester between them.

“Stiles? Talk to me, baby. I said I’m sorry. It just shocked me, that’s all. Something else that happened without me.“

Stiles spins to face him, dropping his phone. “This had nothing to do with you, though. This was my choice to make, and I made it on my own. You don’t get to be pissed about it.”

“I know,” Peter admits quietly. “I’m an idiot. I just got blindsided by the fact you didn’t tell me about it. Why would you keep that from me? I don’t understand.” He hears the petulant whine in his own voice and he hates it, but apparently Stiles isn’t the only one who’s feeling hurt.

“I didn’t tell you right away because I wanted to be sure. How would you feel if at twelve, I told you I wanted to be turned, and at fourteen I changed my mind? I was trying to be adult about it, you _dick,_ and not rush into things!”

Peter opens his mouth to protest automatically that he wouldn’t have minded, but before he speaks, what Stiles has said sinks in. He tries to imagine it, being excited for Stiles as a wolf only to have that taken away. “I – you – you're right. I don’t think I could have coped if that had happened. You really have thought this through, haven’t you?”

 Stiles pokes a bony finger in Peter’s chest. “Damn right. I’ve talked about it with Alpha, I know what I’m getting into.”

“I ruined this for you, didn’t I? By being a self-centred asshole. This was big news, and I hijacked it.”

“Little bit, yeah.”

Peter can’t help but bury his face in his hands. “Tell me Stiles, why aren’t you sick of me yet?  I’m possessive, and selfish, and hot tempered. I’m surprised you tolerate me at all.”

Stiles thaws a little at that. “Yeah, well. You’re okay some of the time, I guess. But I’m still annoyed that you got on your high horse about something that’s none of your business.”

Peter realizes that Stiles doesn’t know the half of it. “Oh, pup. It gets worse. After you left, I challenged my dad, asked him what the hell he was thinking.”

Stiles’s eyes go wide. “You did not!”

Peter looks up with a rueful grin. “I’m afraid I did. He didn’t take it well. Picked me up by the scruff of the neck and held me against the wall until I submitted.”

Stiles stares for a minute, and then, surprisingly, he starts to laugh. “Oh my god, you really are an idiot! I’m not even a wolf, and I know better than to challenge the Alpha! Man, I would have paid to see that.”

Peter’s slightly put out at how gleeful Stiles is. “It was only because I was concerned for you,” he protests. “All I ever want is what’s best for you.”

Stiles is still laughing to himself, but at that he stops, and cups a hand around Peter’s jaw. “I know. You just need to stop assuming that you know what that is, okay?” He presses a soft kiss to Peter’s lips to lessen the sting of his words.

“No more trying to run your life, pup. I promise,” Peter whispers against Stiles’s mouth. ”And I’m delighted about the bite, by the way. I can’t wait to run under a full moon with you.”

It’s the right thing to say. Stiles rewards him with a proper kiss, and the tension leaves Peter’s body. He knows he’s at least partly forgiven. When they pull apart, Stiles’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he says, “So, tell me more about Alpha shoving you face first into the wall.”

Peter tells Stiles about getting called to the office, and about his punishment of running the 5 a.m. cardio class. “Oh man, it sucks to be you!” Stiles says, far too cheerfully in Peter’s opinion.

“I earned it,” Peter sighs, because he really, really did.

 

* * *

 

 Once Stiles has finished taking an unholy amount of pleasure in the thought of Peter getting put in his place, he deigns to let Peter hold him close for a while. “Go on, get your wolf fix. I know you need it,” he says, arms held wide.

Peter doesn’t hesitate to dive into Stiles’s embrace, but even as he’s curled up close, he can’t help but feel that he’s gotten off too lightly. “Why aren’t you still upset with me?” he asks quietly.

Stiles sighs. “Because I can see why you were pissed? I mean, you were still wrong, but I understand it. You just want to protect me. And also, we’ve been apart too long. I don’t wanna waste time holding a grudge.”

Peter lifts his head long enough from where he’s buried it against Stiles’ chest to say, “God I love you, pup. I don’t deserve someone like you.”

“Probably not,” Stiles agrees cheerfully. “I’m pretty great. Lucky I love you too, huh.” Peter can hear that his heartbeat’s steady, and Stiles smells content, and just like that, they’re back on track. They spend the rest of the morning hidden away together, kissing and scenting and cuddled up shirtless, and nobody disturbs them. By the time they emerge sometime in the afternoon, Peter’s in no doubt that Stiles has forgiven him, that they’re good.

 

* * *

 

 

But when Peter’s alarm goes off at 4 a.m. for the next two weeks, Stiles still wakes up just enough to mock him.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter moves out. Stiles takes the bite.

 

They share the news at a pack dinner a month later. Everyone already knows of course, but that doesn’t stop Tom wanting to make it official -  the last person who took the bite was Talia’s husband, and it’s a big deal as far as the pack’s concerned. They’ve gotten together to coordinate Peter’s move the following weekend, and Tom takes advantage of having them all together. Once he has everyone’s attention, Tom nods at Stiles. Stiles takes a deep breath, and says, “Alpha’s agreed to turn me over the summer break. I’m gonna be a werewolf.”

There’s silence for a second, and then Stiles is surrounded by whoops and cheers and dragged into a flurry of hugs. Peter watches as Stiles is overwhelmed by the enthusiastic reception his news is receiving.  Peter cheers the loudest, and holds him the longest. “I bet you’ll be a pretty little wolf, sweetheart,” he murmurs quietly.

Stiles flushes. “I won’t. I’ll be all weird and knobbly, just like the rest of you. Wolf face isn’t pretty, Peter.”

Peter quirks a brow. “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, pup. To see you shift, knowing you have that power, that you’re like us? I can’t think of anything better.” And with that he picks Stiles up and swings him around in his arms, not even trying to hide his pleasure at the thought of it. Stiles lets himself be swept off his feet, and laughs at Peter’s obvious delight in the whole thing.  Ruth brings out a cake to commemorate the decision, and the whole evening takes on a festive feel.

After dinner, while Stiles is distracted by talking with Derek, Peter seeks John out. “Does tomorrow after school still work for you?”

“Yep. I cleared my schedule. You tell him yet?”

“I thought I’d tell him when I pick him up.”

John nods his approval. “This was a good idea, son. Shows him you care, marks the occasion, lets him know you think of him as an adult.”

“I thought so too. Speak of the devil…”

John turns to see Stiles wandering over. “What are you two whispering about? Are you plotting something?” he demands.

“Absolutely.” Peter grins, as does John, and they present a united front, refusing to give Stiles any idea what they’re planning. When Stiles finally gives up and walks away muttering about _just you wait till I have wolf hearing,_ they exchange an amused glance.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter picks Stiles up from school the next day, but instead of driving them out to the preserve, he turns towards town. “I have a surprise,” he announces.

Stiles’s face lights up and he sits up straighter. “What is it? Do I get to know?”

“Actually, yes. I thought that since you’re getting older, maybe it would be a good idea to buy you a car.” He grins at the stunned look he gets in return. He does love it when he catches Stiles off guard.

“You’re kidding, right? I’m still too young.”

“But you won’t be soon. You can get your learner’s in five months. So you can pick any car you want, as long as your dad approves it as safe.”

“Bullshit," Stiles declares, but his face is alight with naked hope.

"No bullshit," Peter smirks. "Did you want to know your budget?" Peter names a figure, and Stiles’s eyes widen.

“Peter, that’s -“

“A perfectly reasonable amount to spend on a first car. I want to do this for you, pup. Let me spoil you a little? “

“Holy shit Peter, this is so cool! I’m getting a car!” Stiles is absolutely _beaming_ , and Peter enjoys the warm feeling of satisfaction that runs through him at being able to provide. He earned a lot on his year abroad, and it’s just been sitting there. This seems as good a use as any for the cash.

They pull up to the car yard, and John’s already waiting, parked in his police cruiser. The dealer keeps glancing nervously out the plate glass window, and Peter can’t blame him – having the sheriff out the front must be giving the guy a guilty conscience. Stiles bounces out of the car, a bundle of nervous energy, and John gets out and greets him with a hug. “Dad, Peter says I can get what I want, as long as you give it the okay!”

“Whatever you want, huh?” John throws Peter a questioning look, and Peter shrugs. The whole point of this is to let Stiles flex his independence.  “Well, I guess we better start looking, then.”

They give the lot a cursory look, noting a few cars of interest. Peter spots a nearly new Camry parked near the back, and points it out. He’s pleased when Stiles nods, saying,  “Yeah! It’s so neat!”

Peter looks again. It seems like a perfectly ordinary silver Camry to him. Stiles walks over, ignoring the Camry and patting the side of the battered blue jeep that’s parked next to it. It’s truly hideous, and older that Stiles by at least ten years. Stiles doesn’t seem to care though, poking around the vehicle with a hungry expression. “Oh my god, I'm in love.”

Peter has to bite his tongue. He hopes that John will be the voice of reason, but John’s eyeing the jeep with a faraway look on his face. “Claudia had one of these, when we first met. Damn things run forever.” Peter looks again, and yep, John’s distinctly misty eyed as he walks over and pats the car fondly. “Let’s pop the hood son, see what she’s like inside.”

Peter closes his eyes and exhales deeply. Apparently, they’re buying a jeep now.

John tells him that it’s not as bad as it looks. It needs some work, but it’s mechanically sound where it matters. Peter casts an eye over the jeep, and he has to agree – there are a few areas that he takes note of, purely for  bargaining purposes, but apart from being an assault on the eyes, it’s not terrible. John claps Stiles on the shoulder. “We’ll work on it together, son. By the time you’re old enough to drive, it’ll be running like a dream.” Stiles drums out a happy rhythm on the hood, bouncing on his toes, and hugs his dad again. Peter sighs. He knows a lost cause when he sees one.

His boy will never make a poker player, thinks Peter, watching as the salesman approaches, drawn by Stiles’s enthusiasm. “Care to take it for a drive?” he asks John, dangling the keys from his hand.

Stiles is almost vibrating in place, but John doesn’t take the keys right away. “Not at the price you’ve got on it,” he says instead, affecting disinterest. Stiles lets out a tiny whine.

“Oh, price is negotiable, especially for you, Sheriff.” The man tips John a wink.

“Well, I guess we could see if it runs.” He takes the keys, before turning to Peter. “You coming?”

Peter shakes his head. “You two have fun. I’ll wait here.”

John and Stiles climb in, and after a tense moment waiting to see if the jeep will actually start, they drive off. Peter can hear Stiles chattering excitedly over the rattle of the motor, and he knows that they’ll be taking the car home. He turns to the salesman and rubs his hands together. “So, while we wait, let’s talk about the fact that it needs five  new tires, sounds like it grinds in second, and has a crack in that passenger’s window shall we?”

“I’ll leave the negotiations till the sheriff gets back,“ the man says, dismissing Peter out of hand.

Peter folds his arms over his chest and stares the man down. “I think you misunderstand. The sheriff isn’t paying for this. I am. So really, it’s me you need to talk to.”

The man’s demeanour changes in an instant. It’s all introductions and offers of coffee and _yes, Mr Hal_ e and _of course Mr Hale._  Peter remains calm and unaffected, unwilling to compromise in the least, and by the time John gets back and declares “It needs some work, but we might be interested,” Peter’s managed to get the man to include a full service, new side window, new tires, twelve months registration, a full tank of fuel, and he’s knocked the price down by a third. He hasn’t had this much fun in ages.

He raises an eyebrow at Stiles. “This is really what you want? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Please, Peter? You said any car I wanted,” Stiles reminds him, eyes wide.

“And I meant it, pup.” Peter turns to the dealer. “Assuming the Sheriff agrees, we’ll pick it up tomorrow after you’ve finished the work that needs to be done.”

“Wait, what? Don’t you have to, I dunno – haggle or something?”  Stiles waves his hands around vaguely.

“Done. As long as your dad’s happy, it’s yours, pup.”

Stiles turns his attention to his dad, expression hopeful. John walks around the jeep a couple of times, kicking the tires, poking at the wiper blades, and generally making a show of inspecting it, until the salesman’s almost as on edge as Stiles. “It’ll do, for a first car,” he finally announces, and Stiles lets out a whoop.

It’s just a matter of signing the paperwork then, and arranging a time for collection the next day. Stiles is over the moon, and insists Peter drive them up to the lookout on the way home so he can show his appreciation properly. They make it home an hour after John, and he takes one look at the pair of them and rolls his eyes. “I wondered where you went, but I guess I don’t need to ask,” he comments, taking in Peter’s mussed hair where there have been fingers dragged through it, and Stiles’s satisfied grin.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s move goes like clockwork. He feels sorry for people who don’t have a pack of wolves at their disposal to help, honestly.  The house already has some basic furniture in there, so it’s barely the work of half a day to fill the rest of the house. There’s a parade of people carrying boxes and chairs and cookware into the place, and Peter and Stiles and Ruth unpack it at the other end, deciding where it all goes.

Tom sends over the coffee table that Stiles made, saying the boys may as well have it  ‘for sentimental reasons.’ Stiles looks at it, head cocked, before declaring “It can stay. It’s not completely terrible, and I had fun making it.” Peter has to admit, a wave of fond memories does wash over him when he looks at it and thinks about a younger Stiles, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on carving the pattern into the top.

There’s a brand new king bed for in the house, and Stiles eyes it hungrily, but he has to control himself, because after the heavy lifting’s done, the pack stays for dinner, to get the scent of them into the house. It’s tradition, and one that Peter wouldn’t think of going against, no matter how desperate he is to pin Stiles to said bed and make it smell like them.

Derek watches on, smirking, as Stiles and Peter do their best not to pretend they want everyone to leave. Or maybe he’s smirking because of the attractive young delivery driver who dropped the bed off. Peter saw the way that Derek stretched deliberately, showing a strip of skin between his tank top and his shorts, and he saw the way the man swallowed at the sight, and he saw the slip of paper that passed between them. Yeah, Peter doesn’t think Derek will be hanging around for too much longer.

He’s proven right when almost as soon as they’ve finished eating the Chinese takeout, Derek gets up and grabs his keys. “I’d better get going. Gotta see a man about a delivery,” he says casually.  

Peter nudges him. “Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?” he says with a smirk.

Derek just grins. “What can I say? I play the hand I was dealt.” He makes a point of flexing his biceps as he says so, and Stiles snorts.

“One day you’ll meet your soulmate and settle down,” Stiles tells him with a smile.

Derek’s grin falters, just for a second. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, a wistful expression flitting over his features.  And he really wouldn’t, Peter knows. But there’s no way to tell if you’re destined to have a match or not, until you meet them. Derek might not even have a soulmate. Derek fixes the smile to his face more firmly. “In the meantime, I’m bringing joy to the single men and women of Beacon Hills.”

“It’s a noble service, nephew. I’m sure they appreciate it,” Peter tells him, thinking briefly of Chris Argent. Derek just laughs.

Derek leaving seems to be the catalyst for everyone else to follow, and soon enough it’s just Peter and Stiles.  After they wave Tom and Ruth goodbye, Peter closes the door and locks it. “No more visitors,” he states firmly. Stiles walks over and wraps his arms around Peter’s neck, leaning against him with a tiny sigh and nodding his agreement. “Tired, sweetheart?”

Stiles nods. “It was hard work, and I don’t have your wolfy strength.”

His t shirt’s streaked with dust, and his hair’s pushed back off his forehead haphazardly where he’s been sweating. Peter thinks he looks delicious when he’s dirty, but he can tell Stiles is too tired to even think about fooling around. “Why don’t you take those filthy things off, and we’ll fill up the bathtub? It’s big enough for two,” Peter suggests. “I could wash your back.”

Stiles hums. “That sounds good. And after, can we go to bed, and maybe just cuddle? I know it’s our first night and we should be taking advantage of it, but moving's worn me out.”

Peter laughs softly. “Sweetheart, if you only want to cuddle, I’m perfectly fine with that. But first, bath?” Peter nudges at Stiles gently, telling him, “I’ll run the tub, you go get undressed.”

Stiles rewards Peter with a soft kiss, then heads off towards the bedroom, and Peter goes and starts the tub running.  He doesn’t have any bath bombs or bubbles,  but he finds a bottle of something that declares it's soothing on sore muscles – he thinks Stiles will appreciate it. He pours a generous dollop into the bath, just as Stiles walks back into the bathroom naked.  Peter strips off his own clothing, and holds out his hands. “Come here, sweet boy. Let me kiss you.”

Stiles doesn’t hesitate, almost falling into Peter’s arms, and they spend the time waiting for the bath to fill making out, soft and sweet, neither of them trying to make it anything more. When the water’s deep enough, they ease themselves into the tub, Stiles letting out a groan of relief at the hot water on his sore muscles. Peter settles himself behind Stiles, pulling him into the vee of his legs with his back settled against Peter’s chest. The tub fits them both perfectly.

Peter washes Stiles down gently, and Stiles sighs with pleasure. Peter savours the feeling of naked flesh pressed against his, runs his fingers lightly over Stiles’s torso, up and down his arms, drinking in the pleased noises Stiles is making. Stiles is completely relaxed, heavy and solid where he’s resting, and Peter almost feels bad when he has to nudge him to move so Peter can wash himself. Stiles doesn’t mind though, happily moving up the tub a little to give Peter room to move. Once he’s clean, Peter extends a hand and Stiles scoots back into his spot, snuggling up close. As he settles into place, he sighs. “I feel bad. We should be having all the sex right now.”

Peter wraps his arms more firmly around Stiles’s middle and leans forwards to ask quietly, “Says who?”

“It just seems like a thing we should do, that’s all. First night in a new house.”

Peter kisses the nape of Stiles’s neck. “We’re both tired, pup. Why do something just for the sake of it?”

Stiles makes a noise of agreement.”I guess. You really don’t mind?”

“I really don’t mind, sweetheart. You’re not the only one who’s had a big day. Besides,” Peter runs one hand softly over Stiles’s abs, making him shiver. ”Who’s to say we won’t wake up early?”

“We could definitely wake up early. I could set my alarm.”

Peter grins, and goes back to kissing Stiles’s neck. They laze in the bath until the water begins to cool, and when they get out Stiles takes great pleasure in wandering around buck naked, because as he says, there’s nobody to make him put pants on. It doesn’t take long for the novelty to wear off though, and for him to dive under the blankets and curl up contentedly against Peter’s side. They lay there together, both warm and relaxed after their bath, but they don’t sleep, not right away. Stiles wiggles around getting comfortable. “I can’t believe I’m in your bed, in your house.”

Peter turns to him and plants a kiss on his cheek. “You mean in _our_ bed, in _our_ house,” he corrects.

Stiles’s scent turns pleased, fragrant and syrupy-sweet at that. ”Yeah. Our house.”

Peter can’t help but roll them over, pinning Stiles beneath him as he sniffs and nuzzles at him. “You smell _so fucking happy_ ,” he growls out, almost light-headed under the onslaught. It’s like a drug, and he wants, no, _needs_ , to get his fill. He buries his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck, drawing in great lungsful of the intoxicating scent. When he finally pulls back, Stiles’s lips are twitching with mirth.

“You really like that, huh?”

What, making you happy? There’s nothing better, sweetheart.” Peter nuzzles in again, and arranges them so that his face is buried in Stiles’s neck, and  they go to sleep wrapped around each other just like that.

 

* * *

 

 

 Stiles doesn’t set an alarm, but Peter’s still woken early by a warm mouth sucking and tugging against the sensitive spot on his hip. He whines and bucks, unable to help himself. The blankets move aside, and a tousle headed Stiles emerges grinning wickedly. “I thought that would wake you.”

Peter smiles lazily, and tugs at Stiles’s hair, dragging him up the bed for a kiss. “Such a wanton creature,” he murmurs once their lips have parted. Stiles hums his agreement, and then he’s kissing his way down Peter’s torso, stopping to tease and bite and lick at his nipples, making Peter squirm. In retaliation, Peter rolls over onto his side and pulls Stiles close so their bodies are pressed together. He can feel Stiles’s morning wood, hard against his own, and he rolls his hips in a slow grind, drawing a gasp from Stiles.

They rock against each other, slow and lazy, and Peter senses his arousal building like a distant thunderstorm, slow and inevitable. Stiles is mumbling to himself, little _mmms_ and _aahs_ and _so goods,_ and his hips have picked up the rhythm.  Peter can feel the slickness where they’re both leaking, and he reaches down and wraps a hand around them both, the added pressure and warmth of his hand making him thrust a little faster. Stiles is panting against his mouth where he’s still sloppily kissing him, and he reeks of arousal – Peter wants to roll in it. He can’t, so he does the next best thing. He flips Stiles onto his back and holds him there with a hand on his hip, then swallows his length down in one smooth motion.

Stiles gives a surprised squeak, but the sounds soon change to moans and whines as Peter sucks steadily at the shaft, Stiles’s length heavy on his tongue, the flavour of precome filling Peter’s mouth. It’s bliss. He teases and sucks, flicking his tongue across the head, and it doesn’t take long until Stiles is fucking up into his mouth, panting and desperate. “Peter, please!” Stiles gasps out, and seconds later his hips give one last abortive thrust and he comes, flooding Peter’s mouth and senses with his taste, his scent. Peter’s wolf revels in it, and he doesn’t hesitate to swallow.

He keeps Stiles’s length in his mouth, suckling him gently through the aftershocks, eyes closed to better appreciate the experience. Stiles’ heart is still thundering in his chest, but he smells satisfied. Peter loves it, doing this for Stiles, loves the way he can make his boy fall apart so easily. Stiles starts to pull away, and Peter lets Stiles’s softening cock slip from his mouth. When he looks up, Stiles’s eyes are closed and he’s still panting, face flushed and lips pink. Peter’s cock throbs at the sight, and he lets out a noise of want that’s more animal than human. “Baby, you look so fucked out right now.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles manages. He opens one eye when Peter slides up the bed, his still hard cock pressing into Stiles’s hip. Stiles slips a hand down and takes Peter’s erection in hand, rolling over slightly so he can reach comfortably. Peter’s close, his slow building arousal suddenly clawing to the surface, and the touch of Stiles’s palm is firm against his sensitive flesh. He closes his eyes and thrusts urgently, feeling the tingling in his balls that means he’s nearly there. Stiles leans over and starts to kiss him, and Peter knows he must taste of come, but Stiles doesn’t pull back, instead making hungry noises as he slides his tongue in. The thought of it, of Stiles licking the taste of himself out of Peter’s mouth, is so primal that it has Peter teetering on the edge. Then Stiles drags his palm over the sensitive head of Peter’s cock, and Peter’s done. He comes with a deep groan, his whole body shuddering. Stiles keeps his hand loosely around Peter’s dick as he gives one last thrust and spurts one last time before stilling, breathing heavily.

Peter’s floating on a cloud of endorphins and scent and touch, and it takes him a long time to move. He’s perfectly happy where he is, with Stiles pulled close, the warmth of the afterglow washing over them both. When he finally manages to speak, it’s only to murmur, ”Love you, pup.”

“Love you too. I think the bed smells like us, now.” Peter can hear the smirk in his boy’s voice, but he’s too relaxed to care.

* * *

 

 

They both take a week or so to settle back into sleeping alone, but it’s much easier when your partner’s only half a mile down the road, Peter discovers. Most nights they message back and forth, or sit talking on the phone till Stiles’s yawning gives him away and Peter insists that they get some sleep.

They settle into a routine. Stiles stays over on the weekend, and two or three afternoons a week he’ll come over to do his homework. When Peter comes in the door after work, Stiles will have his books spread all over the table and be working furiously on his laptop. Stiles likes to get everything done before Peter gets home, so they have time for other things. Sometimes, it’s watching a movie or marathoning a show together, yelling insults at the screen and sharing popcorn. And sometimes, it’s rolling naked in the big bed, all  hands and mouths and mess. Peter likes both options equally.

They make sure to stick to the 10pm curfew, mainly because Stiles with too little sleep is like a bear with a sore head, and between gym, lacrosse, school, and running with Derek, he’s dead on his feet by ten. Peter will walk him home, arms hooked together, and deliver him to the door with a chaste kiss that looks like it belongs in an Austen novel and that’s fooling exactly nobody.

They take it slow, in the bedroom. Stiles is still young, and the novelty hasn’t worn off yet, so they’re happy to stick to what they’re doing. Sometimes, Stiles will ask Peter to finger him a little. Sometimes he won’t.  He’s started watching Peter intently when Peter blows him, and he always wants to kiss afterwards, chasing the taste of himself, as though he’s already wolf. Peter suspects Stiles is getting up the nerve to try it himself, but he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t push. They’ll get there. 

And sure enough, he wakes one morning to the feeling of a mouth around his dick. He lays still, fighting the urge to buck his hips up, running a hand over the back of Stiles’s head and makes a pleased noise while his boy licks and sucks at just the head, teasing. Stiles is playing, Peter knows. He’s messy and noisy and inelegant, swallowing and stopping and starting, and there’s no real intent behind it, but it’s still a heady sensation and the sounds are indescribably arousing, so when Stiles pulls away and starts to use his hands instead, it takes Peter all of thirty seconds to come. Stiles looks up at him with a smug grin, far too pleased with himself. “Wow. You really liked that, huh?”

Peter's still coming down, but he manages to find the words. “I like anything you do, pup. But yes, I liked it."

Stiles’s grin widens. “I wasn’t sure what I was doing, and I couldn’t fit much in, so I just did what feels good when you do it to me.” He pauses. “I wouldn’t mind doing it again, sometime. They say practice makes perfect.”

Peter mirrors Stiles’s grin. “They do say that.”

They don’t get to stay in bed long, because Ruth’s expecting them for dinner, but the self-satisfied smile doesn’t leave Stiles’s face for the rest of the afternoon.

 

* * *

 

 

The summer break arrives too soon, and with it the day set aside for Stiles’s turning. Stiles is a bundle of nerves, and Peter’s not far behind. Objectively he knows the odds of Stiles rejecting the bite are slim, but that doesn’t stop him worrying about it. They talk about it late at night, when the darkness is there as a shield. “How long will it take, do you think?” Stiles asks quietly. “Till we know?”

“I don’t know, pup. Maybe hours?” Peter wishes he could offer more reassurance. He feels obliged to add, “You don’t have to do this for me, you know. You can change your mind.”

He feels rather than sees Stiles shaking his head. “Nope. Doing it for me. I want it, but I’m nervous, like I’m at the top of a roller coaster.” Peter pulls Stiles close.

“Same,” he admits. “If it goes wrong, I don’t think I’d cope.” Just the idea of it fills him with dread.

Stiles hums. “Guess I’ll have to make sure it takes, then.”

“I’m sure it will, sweetheart.” Peter pretends that he believes it.

They don’t sleep much, and neither of them has an appetite for breakfast the next day. Tom looks as tired as they feel, and Peter guesses he hasn’t slept much either. John though, looks worse than any of them. His eyes are bloodshot as if he’s been crying, or maybe drinking, and there are dark rings under them.  They’re gathered in Stiles’s bedroom, and John steps forward. “I’d like a moment alone with my son before we get this show on the road, Alpha,” he says gruffly.

At Tom’s signal everyone leaves the room and heads downstairs. Half an hour later John comes down, and he’s _definitely_ been crying. He walks over to Tom and leans into him, seeking some sort of reassurance. Tom does his best. “I’ve never had a bite not take, John. And your boy’s a perfect candidate. I wouldn’t even consider it otherwise.”  John gives a shaky nod, and sits down heavily.

“Peter? You want to go see him too?” Tom asks. Peter shakes his head. He knows if he does, he’ll be tempted to try and talk Stiles out of this, and neither of them need that kind of stress right now. Instead he says, “I’m sure I’ll see him after, Alpha.”

Tom nods approvingly, and when he goes back upstairs, he goes alone.

It’s too quiet downstairs, and it feels to Peter like a hospital waiting room, a mix of dread and anticipation palpable in the air. They hear a sharp cry, and Peter feels a flare of panic through his bond with Stiles, but it’s there and gone, a momentary thing. He closes his eyes and focuses, trying and failing to get any sign of whether the bite’s taking or not. It’s too soon of course, but that doesn’t stop him hoping. 

It’s the worst kind of waiting.

it takes an hour and Peter’s just about ready to climb the walls when suddenly, he feels it. A tiny spark, a hint of something new, pinging along his pack bonds. He looks up and sees Ruth grinning at him. “It took,” he whispers.

“It took,” she agrees. Every werewolf in the room is wearing an expression of wonder at the sensation of a new bond being formed.

John’s eyes are wide and hopeful. “It’s good?” he demands breathlessly.

Peter nods. “I can feel him.” He stands and announces “I’m going up.” Nobody tries to stop him.

When he reaches the bedroom the door’s closed, but he knocks quietly, hand on the doorknob. It opens under his fingers and Tom’s standing there wearing a broad smile, even though he’s making a shushing gesture. “Still out cold,” he says quietly. Peter looks over at the bed where Stiles is, indeed, still unconscious, but his wolf can sense the change. He approaches the bed quietly and raises his eyebrows at Tom, silently seeking permission. Tom nods, and Peter buries his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck, scenting him deeply.

Something fundamental has changed about the way Stiles smells. It’s richer now, wilder. His scent’s deeper, more intense, somehow more complete. Peter pulls his face back and when he smiles at his father, there are fangs in it.

“He’s perfect,” he slurs.

“Isn’t he, though?” Tom looks down at Stiles fondly.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles sleeps for a day and a half, tossing and turning, surfacing occasionally, letting out little growls and whines that are, in Peter’s opinion, adorable. He and John take turns keeping a bedside vigil, and Tom doesn’t sleep at all. When Stiles finally surfaces, he looks at the faces surrounding him, eyes flashing gold, and says, ”It worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked, pup.” Tom helps Stiles sit up, and Stiles instinctively tilts his head back, allowing Tom access to his throat in a show of submission to the Alpha. Tom growls out his approval and rubs his scent up and down the side of Stiles’s neck. “Welcome to the pack, Stiles.”

“Thank you, Alpha,” Stiles says quietly.  Tom drags him into a hug then, holding him tight. It’s partly to settle Stiles’s wolf, and partly just because Tom’s happy for him.  Peter watches, amused, as Stiles snuffles and snorts instinctively at Tom, drawing the scent of his Alpha in, and Tom holds Stiles close whiles he satisfies his newly awakened instincts, and scents him in return.

Peter wants nothing more than to pull Stiles over to himself and scent him, rub their bodies together, but protocol demands that Tom gets to do so first.  It’s not long before Tom lets go though, catching Peter’s eye. He says, “Go ahead, then.”

Peter wastes no time in squeezing Stiles tight, and for once he doesn’t have to keep his strength in check. Stiles squeezes him right back.  Stiles buries his head in the crook of Peter’s neck, scenting him almost desperately, and Peter can feel the pack bond, pulsing and flaring, twisting up tight with their soul bond and making something so much stronger than the sum of its parts. It’s overwhelming, and Stiles must feel it too, because he lets out a stifled sob. “I love you, Peter, I love you so much,” he keeps repeating, a stray tear leaking from the corner of his eye. Peter holds on for a long time, and it’s with reluctance that he lets Stiles go when the rest of the pack start to drift into the room, all keen to scent their newest pack member.

He does let go though, knows Stiles’s wolf needs it, to be claimed and included. The look of sheer joy on Stiles face as he gets passed from wolf to wolf and hugged and scented within an inch of his life is something Peter will treasure for the rest of his days.

Stiles isn’t a pup any more. He’s a baby wolf.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes Stiles a solid week to adjust to everything being too loud, too bright, too _much_. Peter and the rest of the pack do their best to teach him how to tune sounds and smells out, how to focus on what’s important, and gradually Stiles gets a handle on it. Tom gives Peter the week off, and he’s there every step of the way for Stiles, helping him get used to his new abilities, praising him when he keeps control and soothing him when it all goes wrong and he can’t quite keep his shift under control.

Stiles spends several days trailing after Tom like a lost lamb, instinct drawing him to his Alpha. He doesn’t even try to be subtle as he leans into Tom’s touch and scents him. Tom encourages it – it’s expected behavior, will help Stiles build a strong pack bond. It’s not only Tom, though. Stiles has an insatiable need to touch every pack member he comes across, leaning against them, touching their hands, wrapping a hand around their shoulders. They all indulge him, every one of them wearing a soft look as they watch him nuzzling up close.

He spends the most time, though, scenting Peter. He takes every chance to push Peter into the nearest wall and hold him there, testing his new strength while he sniffs and hums approvingly, telling Peter, “I wanna rub all over you, make you smell like me,” before doing just that. Peter lets him, and enjoys every second of it. They persuade John to let Stiles stay at Peter’s for a few days, just to get it out of his system.

It’s not sexual, though. It’s something like two weeks before Stiles feels he has enough control to even think about anything to do with sex. “I don’t want my claws to come out when they’re near your junk,” he explains, and Peter heartily agrees. But finally, the day comes when Stiles lets himself in the front door, walks over to the couch where Peter’s reading, straddles Peter’s lap, and holds up a hand. He extends his claws, then retracts them, perfectly in control. Then he whispers in Peter’s ear, “Wanna fool around?”

“Absolutely, my pretty little wolf.” Peter drapes his arms around Stiles’s shoulders and pulls him closer for a kiss. It seems like it’s been forever since they did this, and Stiles tastes and smells irrestistible. Peter’s arousal sweeps over him, and he’s suddenly desperate to get his baby to bed. He kisses Stiles hot and dirty, pouring all his want into the kiss.

Stiles pulls away suddenly, just as things are getting good, in Peter’s opinion. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. “Peter? What’s that smell?”

Peter knows exactly what he’s talking about, but he plays innocent. “What?”

Stiles breathes in deeper. “It’s – I can’t describe it. It’s like bacon had a baby with French fries. Salty, but tasty. It’s warm, and I want to rub my face in it. And it’s coming from,” his eyes narrow and Peter can see the wheels turning. “You! It’s coming from you, Peter. What the hell is it?”

Peter grins, and takes Stiles’s hand in his, guiding it down to his erection. “I’ll give you a hint, sweetheart.”

Peter can see the exact moment the penny drops. “It’s sex, isn’t it?”

Peter kisses Stiles again, before breathing out, “Sex, arousal, lust, all of those things. It just shows how badly I want to wreck you, sweetheart.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open. “Oh my god, no wonder your dad had us clean the car! How can anyone get anything done when people go around just smelling like that?“

Peter chuckles. “It only smells like that to yo, because we’re together. To anyone who isn’t us, it’s far less intense.”

Stiles presses his hand against the bulge in Peter pants, grinding down enough to make Peter groan, before closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. “God, there it is again. I wanna marry that smell right now.”

“You could marry me instead,” Peter teases, only half joking.

“Sure. After college, okay?”

Peter’s startled at Stiles’s easy acceptance. “Really? You’d marry me?”

Stiles shrugs, and stops doing that wonderful thing with his hand long enough to say, “Well, duh. I was always going to. Now let me concentrate, because this is like, a million times better now I can smell how turned on you are.” And he unzips Peter’s pants and casually wraps his hand around his cock, like he hasn’t just made Peter the happiest man alive.

It’s only later, when Peter’s sucked Stiles off twice (“Wait, werewolves can come more than once in a row? We are _so_ trying that!”) that Stiles brings it up. “Did you actually just propose while my hand was on your dick?”

Peter groans. “ Maybe? It depends. Did you mean it when you said yes?”

Stiles stretches and lets out a huge yawn before replying. “Of course I did. But maybe ask me again when I’m old enough to vote? And I expect flowers and fairy lights next time, and a ring, and you down on one knee.“

Peter snorts. “Demanding little brat, aren’t you?”

“Yep. You love me anyway.” Stiles leans over and kisses the tip of Peter’s nose, and then, using his considerable powers of persuasion,  tries to convince Peter that maybe, three orgasms in a row aren’t _completely_ out of the question.

(Spoiler. They aren’t.)

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles adjusts to life as a Were.

 

There’s a split second, just before Tom’s fangs pierce his side, that Stiles thinks _No wait, I changed my mind, I don’t want this._ But he doesn’t really mean it, and then it’s too late anyway.

The pain is blinding, and he must pass out, because the next thing he remembers is everything being too hot, burning up from the inside and feeling wrong, trying to wake up but not quite managing it, drowning in weird fever dreams that he can’t seem to drag himself out of.

And then suddenly, he can feel Tom and Peter and Derek and Ruth, Laura and Talia and Cora and even his dad, connected to him somehow. He hears a whimpering sound, and it must be him because seconds later there’s a hand soothing his brow, and Tom’s voice softly telling him to go back to sleep, and that’s his Alpha giving him an order, so he does.

When he surfaces again, Peter’s next to him, stroking his face, calling him baby wolf, smiling so proudly. Stiles lets out a tiny growl and then starts at the fact that that sound came from _him_ , and holy shit, he’s a wolf now, isn’t he? He opens his eyes, can _feel_ them flash, somehow. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Tom welcomes him to the pack, which Stiles secretly thinks is overkill because he’s always been pack really, since he was six, but he also knows this is a different type of belonging. He and Tom scent each other, and Stiles is a little overwhelmed by the sheer power emanating from the man. He understands now why nobody in the pack tries to cross Tom – it would be like holding up a drinking straw against a hurricane.

Peter’s there, and Stiles is desperate to be near him. As soon as Tom gives the nod he’s in Peter’s arms, and the feeling of  _Packmatemine_ washes over him as they touch. From the way his breath catches Peter feels it too, and Stiles is full to bursting with emotion, hears himself rambling, telling Peter how much he loves him as he greedily clasps at his soulmate.

It’s heady and intoxicating, Stiles’s senses already overloaded with heartbeats and stray murmurs from the rest of the pack waiting outside the door and Stiles can hear it, can hear it _all,_ and he wonders if he’ll go mad with it. But Peter has Stiles’s head pressed against his chest and a hand covering his other ear so that everything’s muted, and Stiles relaxes at the touch.

Peter will take care of him.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asks, because he’s lost all sense of time, but he does know that he needs to pee urgently.

“Nearly two days, sweetheart,” Peter whispers, still holding Stiles close.

Stiles pushes Peter away. “Bathroom,” he explains, and Peter lets him go, a fond smile on his face. When Stiles gets back, (and yes, he may have spent an extra few minutes trying and failing to get his fangs to show), the rest of the pack are waiting for him, and he gets swept up in Mama Ruth’s arms and hugged so tightly that if he wasn’t a werewolf ( _he’s a werewolf! A freaking werewolf!)_ he suspects she’d have cracked his ribs.

He gets passed from pack member to pack member, scented and hugged and licked (Derek does it just to be an asshole, laughing the whole time), ending up wrapped around his dad, who looks like hell but is grinning fiercely. His dad squeezes him, and Stiles squeezes back, earning a pained grunt before he remembers that he’s strong, now. John just laughs when he apologizes. “It’s fine, son. I guess you’re playing with the big boys now, huh?”

“I guess,” Stiles grins. He lifts John and swings him around, just because he can.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s easier than he thought, getting the wolf under control. He’s had a lot of discussions with Tom leading up to this about having an anchor, about how to tap into that place and keep his focus, and it comes naturally. There are a few false starts, sure - a few gouges in the dining table where his claws shot out at an unexpected noise, a cut lip where he managed to bite himself, (he’s still not sure how he managed that), a coffee mug pegged unerringly at the back of Derek’s head hard enough to shatter with the force of it after Derek was a smartass and Stiles’s wolf took umbrage, took over, before he even thought about it, but generally, it’s a pretty smooth transition.

Of course, there’s the way he itches to touch his pack.  Tom’s like some sort of wolfy catnip for a while there – Stiles needs to seek him out, stay close, touch him, smell him, hold him, his new wolf purring with pleasure when Tom puts a big hand on the back of his neck and holds it there.

And Peter. Gods, the _smell_ of him. For years, Stiles has listened to Peter croon about how _good_ he smells, how right, and as a human he’s tried to understand. But the reality is overpowering. Peter smells like fresh baked gingerbread and salted caramel and hot apple pie all rolled into one, and Stiles gets it now, the reason Peter stole his pyjamas when he went to college, why he loved the blanket Stiles gave him that smelled of them so much.

Stiles moves in with Peter for a week, and spends the whole time rubbing up against him, his wolf hungry for touch and scent and contact. Stiles would love nothing better than to get down and dirty with Peter, but he still has an unfortunate habit of popping his claws when he’s aroused, something he discovered the hard way. He never told Peter exactly what happened in the shower when he was jerking off, but given Stiles’s yelp of pain when his claws sunk into tender flesh, and the way Peter was grinning at him like the asshole he is when Stiles came out of the bathroom, he suspects Peter knows exactly what happened.

He learns to keep control. The pack helps, all of them taking the time to teach him and encourage him. He feels like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality - totally out of his depth, but faking it like a champ. But he finds his anchor - or rather his anchors, because it’s all of them. Peter, Tom, Ruth, his dad, Derek, Laura and Cora, Talia and Matthew, they’re what he reaches for, what he clings to. When Tom asks him what his anchor is, and Stiles tells him that it’s everyone, Tom gets a tiny, pleased smile on his face and leans over to ruffle Stiles’ hair.

Stiles practices and practices until he can control his shift, can slide all nine claws in and out at will. (He’d had a vain hope that Stumpy would grow back, but the original damage is too old, too extensive. He’s stuck with nine.) And the day finally comes when he can control his claws even while he closes his eyes and imagines Peter naked.

He doesn’t run over to Peter’s house exactly, but only because Ruth’s watching him with a knowing smirk. He does jog, though. He lets himself in the front door, walks over to the couch where Peter’s reading, straddles Peter’s lap, and holds up a hand. He extends his claws, then retracts them, perfectly in control. Then he whispers in Peter’s ear, “Wanna fool around?”

When Peter proposes, sort of, almost, at the most inappropriate time imaginable, Stiles says yes, because of course he does. He acts like it’s a foregone conclusion that they’ll be together always, even as his heart sings.

He tells Peter he wants another, proper, proposal when he’s older, but he knows that this will always be it for him, that awkwardly perfect moment when Peter casually says, ”You could marry me instead.” The other proposal will be just for show, so that they have a story to tell their kids, if they have any, that doesn’t involve “W _e were making out after I got turned and your father asked me while we were dry humping_. _Also, I was fifteen at the time_.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles is a magnificent wolf, taking to it like he was made for it. Peter supposes he was, really –  Stiles has spent half of his life with pack.  But it still gives Peter a thrill when on their first full moon, Stiles runs through the preserve at his side as they howl at the sky, pink-cheeked and laughing, his delight obvious. Then Stiles gets a grin, challenging Peter to catch him if he can. Peter stalks him and catches his easily, and they spend a very pleasant hour (or two or three, who can tell?) tussling together, indulging themselves by the light of the moon, emerging with wide grins and leaves in their hair,  Derek teasing them good-naturedly as Stiles flips him off.  Peter notes that Derek’s smart enough not to try the same with Tom and Ruth when they wander out of the woods in a similar state, Ruth with her shirt inside out and half buttoned, Tom with his missing all together, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. It’s the full moon, after all. Passions run high.

It’s a shock for Peter the first day they go running with Derek and Stiles outstrips them both, despite him and Derek using all their werewolf speed. Stiles is waiting for them at the end of the track, looking at his watch and affecting a yawn. “What, did you get lost?”

“How?” is all Peter can manage to gasp out.

Stiles shrugs. “I had to fight to keep up before, so I got fast. Now I’m fast _and_ a wolf. It was always gonna be no contest.”

Derek nods in agreement. “All that training as a puny human’s paying off.”

Stiles grins widely, and then throws himself at Derek and wrestles him to the ground, just because he can. Peter supposes he _could_ step in and help his nephew but honestly, where the fun in that? It’s much more entertaining just watching them while he catches his breath.

Stiles throwing himself into exploring his new abilities leads to some questionable results. Peter watches on, wincing as Stiles falls from the rock wall and breaks his ankle because he insisted that safety ropes are for people who don’t heal, and point blank refused to wear them.  When Peter goes over, the look Stiles gives him is nothing short of betrayed. “I wasn’t meant to _fall_ ,” he complains. “But I jumped and overshot. Stupid wolf strength.”

“Shhh, you’ll be fine soon enough. And you’re the one who said you’d heal,” Peter reminds him gently.

Stiles pokes out his tongue. “Still hurts, though. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t.” Even as he speaks Peter can see the swelling disappearing, almost hear the new bone growing.

“It’s a learning curve, sweetheart. Shall we go home? I’ll pamper you like the injured princess you are,” Peter teases.

“Yes,” Stiles says decisively. “Take me home and spoil me. Possibly with blowjobs?”

“Definitely with blowjobs.” Peter promises, amused. Stiles’s sex drive was high before, but now it’s off the charts.  The combination of werewolf stamina and teenage hormones is a powerful one. Neither of them minds much, although Peter’s the first to admit that John limiting the amount of nights Stiles is allowed to stay over is the only reason Peter gets anywhere near enough sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

The summer’s over before they know it.  Stiles heads back to school, and Peter wonders if his new status will affect his social standing, because there are still douchebags out there who call weres _abominations_ and _monsters_ and _children of darkness.  
_

There is one afternoon where Stiles comes home out of sorts and refusing to say what’s wrong, and then John gets a call from the school about a student  who’s been left stranded, dangling from a tree by the straps of his backpack, almost as if someone hooked him up there and left him. Stiles’s name has been mentioned, it appears.

John assures them that absolutely not, he picked Stiles up from school himself and there’s no way he was anywhere near Devon when whatever happened, happened, (because of _course_ it’s Devon, that kid can really hold a grudge.) Peter waits till John ends the call to say, “Sheriff, did you just _lie_ _to the principal?”_

John’s face is impossible to read. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Stiles has been at the station with me the whole afternoon.” If Peter couldn’t hear the slight uptick in his heartbeat, he’d be totally convinced. He nods approvingly.

“At the station. Of course.”  Peter’s wolf still wants to go and threaten the little toerag who upset Stiles, like he did years ago, but he knows that there’s no need. John Stilinski is a fierce as any wolf, where his boy’s concerned.

Peter leaves it alone. 

 

* * *

 

Life carries on for them as normal, apart from Peter’s grocery bill growing exponentially as Stiles’s appetite increases to make up for his increased metabolism. Peter really doesn’t care – he’d happily buy all the steak in the world if the payoff is getting to have Stiles as a wolf.

Stiles gets his learner’s permit, and starts driving lessons. John takes him out in the jeep twice a week, and he reports that Stiles is a natural, his improved reflexes making it easy for him to learn.  Peter takes him out too sometimes, but they somehow always end up at the lookout, and not much actual driving practice gets done.

Peter starts to get a reputation at the gym as an unforgiving taskmaster who drives his clients hard and accepts no excuses. The results he gets are outstanding, and he has a waiting list. Stiles thinks it’s hilarious that people will pay Peter to shout at them. Peter did _try_ coaching Stiles, exactly once. Stiles ignored everything he said, Peter yelled at him, and Stiles pinned Peter to the mat and roared at him before retreating, flipping Peter off from his vantage point at the top of the climbing wall.

They decided that maybe Stiles should keep working out with Derek.

Scott and Stiles continue to be as thick as thieves. Scott asks Stiles what it’s like being a wolf, and Peter sees him watching Stiles thoughtfully as he absently fiddles with his inhaler. Peter gives it till next summer, tops, before Scott asks.

There’s a new front desk officer at the station, Sandy.  She’s somewhere in her forties, dark haired and curvy, with a wicked sense of humor. John’s immediately smitten, and it seems the feeling’s mutual. Peter sees them out having dinner, and reports back to Stiles.  Stiles teases his dad mercilessly, telling him, “Wrap it before you tap it, pops.”  John tells him not to be such a disrespectful little shit, blushing.

When John ends up staying out overnight, it’s too good an opportunity for payback for Peter to pass up.

Over breakfast the next day, he presents John with a gift-wrapped pack of condoms, and a bottle of champagne. Peter gets pulled over three times the following week for minor traffic infringements, but he thinks it was worth it, just to see the expression on John’s face when he opened the package, and to hear Stiles’s hoots of laughter.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter’s shocked when he sees Christmas decorations at the store. It’s December. How the hell did that happen?

He knows, intellectually, that time has passed, but to be honest, the last year’s been a blur. Between coming home, moving into his own place, and Stiles taking the bite, he’s barely given the calendar a glance.

He casts his mind back to this time last year. They’d been apart, and miserable. This year, Peter muses, will definitely be better. They’ve agreed on just one gift for each other, because Stiles’ budget is limited, despite Tom paying Stiles to work at the gym after school collecting the towels and cleaning out the locker room.  Tom and Ruth and John are all great believers in their kids earning their keep, regardless of the fact that the pack can afford to support them without blinking an eye – When Peter was fifteen, he had the same job Stiles does now.

Stiles tells Peter his present is handmade – he’s been working on something in the shed with the dads for ages, but Peter’s been made to promise not to peek, and nobody will give him the slightest hint, despite his best efforts. Ruth just furrows her brows in disappointment when he attempts to get information out of her. She promises him that he’ll love it, though.

Peter’s taking Stiles away for a break. He’s gotten the okay from John, and he’s booked them into a nice hotel in San Francisco over New Year’s. It will be nice to get away, just the two of them – although Peter has his own house, there’s something about being _away_ together that he craves.

Peter eyes up the display of silver and gold baubles, and texts Stiles.

**Busy, baby?**

It’s mere seconds before he gets a reply.  _Finishing homework before the weekend. FML_ **-_-**

**Come over in three hours. I have a surprise for you.**

_That’s a very specific time frame_

**It’s a very specific surprise. I need three hours.**

_It might be longer. I hate chemistry._

Peter sends back kissy face emojis. **See you when you’re done. Love you, pup.**

He makes short work of selecting an array of decorations, and then he drives to the lot where he knows there are live trees, selecting one and managing to shove it in the back of his SUV.  He gets it home, and despite it being a two-man job, he gets the tree up on his own. There’s water everywhere, but it takes no time to clean it up.

While he waits for the tree branches to settle, Peter drapes tinsel around the place, making the whole living room look festive. He hangs up various plastic sprigs of mistletoe at strategic points, not that he thinks Stiles will wait to be under them to start kissing him. He stands back and looks at the placement of the tree critically. It’s exactly as perfect as he’d planned.  He’s just admiring the effect when he hears Stiles’s key in the lock. “Peter, can I come in yet? It’s been three hours,” Stiles calls.

Peter can’t help himself. He pounces on Stiles as soon as he walks in the door, pushing him up against the wall and kissing him thoroughly. He hasn’t seen his boy properly in a few days, and he’s missed him. Stiles obviously feels the same, if the way he huffs and growls into the kiss is anything to go by. Stiles makes tiny wolf-like sounds whenever he’s aroused, a habit that he developed as soon as he was turned, and Peter hopes he never stops doing it. It’s endearing and thrilling all at once, to hear Stiles whine high in his throat, whimper as Peter presses a thick thigh between Stiles’s leg so he can rut against it, one of Stiles’s favorite things to do.

This wasn’t what Peter had intended at all. He’d planned to cover Stiles’s eyes with his hands and lead him into the living area, show him the tree and the decorations that he has there. Apparently, his wolf has different ideas. Luckily, Peter’s always been adaptable.

“So...was this…the surprise?” Stiles pants out, as he slips his hands under Peter’s shirt, thumbing over his nipples.

“No,” Peter moans. “I invited you over to… trim the tree. But this… this is a better idea.”  Stiles bites against Peter’s collarbone as his thrusts speed up, and he comes in his jeans with a groan and a shudder, just like that, pressed hard against Peter’s muscular thigh.

Stiles pants against Peter’s neck for a minute before screwing up his face, seemingly surprised at the sticky mess he’s made. “Gross.”

Peter laughs softly. “Serves you right for being impatient, pup.” He kisses Stiles gently before stepping back so Stiles can move away from the wall. “Go get changed, sweetheart, and we’ll decorate the tree.”

“What about you, though?” Stiles traces a hand over the bulge in Peter’s jeans. “Want a hand?”

Peter leans into the touch. “Maybe I’ll come up and help you get changed,” he says thoughtfully. “The tree could probably stand to rest a little more.”

Stiles grins, leaning in and sucking on Peter’s collarbones. “Gotta have a well rested tree.” 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they come downstairs an hour later the tree’s branches are relaxed, and so are they. Peter hands Stiles the bags with the decorations with a tiny smirk. “I thought I’d get something different, something you’d like.”

Stiles opens the first box and screeches in delight. “ STAR WARS!! HOLY SHIT YOU GOT STAR WARS!!” He waves the tiny storm trooper around excitedly.

“I got Star Wars,” Peter confirms.  “There’s some Marvel in there as well, and some Dr Who.”

Stiles digs through the bags, pulling out the various figurines, the grin on his face widening with every new thing he finds. “Really, Peter?”

“I thought you’d like it.” Peter picks up the last bag and pulls out the Weeping Angel tree topper he’s been saving, waggling it between his fingers.

When Stiles sees what he’s holding, Peter finds himself lifted off the ground and swung around in a fierce hug. He’s still not used to Stiles being able to do that, even after nearly six months. “You are the actual best,” Stiles tells him happily, before setting him down and kissing him fiercely. Peter thinks for a moment that the tree won’t be getting decorated tonight, but then Stiles plucks the Weeping Angel from his fingertips and turns his attention back to the mass of geekery scattered over the floor.

They spend the next hour decorating the tree, Stiles making sure the placement of the ornaments _‘makes sense’_ (“You can’t have a Cyberman next to a Dalek Peter, Jesus”), and finally Stiles places the Angel on top with a satisfied sigh.  “That looks amazing,” he grins, taking photos to send to Scott and Derek.

After Stiles informs him he’s allowed to stay over they spend the evening curled up together watching Love Actually and eating grilled cheese sandwiches, and Peter feels the warmth of domesticity rolling over him. Stiles is sitting next to him, head against his shoulder, and it’s perfect. By the time the movie finishes Stiles is dozing, and Peter gives him a nudge. “Bedtime, sweetheart.”

Stiles mumbles something and burrows against him. Peter shakes him again, and when Stiles surfaces, leads him upstairs to bed. Tonight, they’ll sleep. But tomorrow’s Saturday, so they’ll laze around in bed and tease each other for hours. Peter smiles to himself.

Life is good.

 

* * *

 

 

On Christmas day, Peter gives Stiles his gift of a weekend away, and Stiles kisses him soundly, but afterwards he goes quiet, and Peter catches him watching him thoughtfully, knows something’s on Stiles’s mind. Before he gets a chance to ask though, Stiles takes Peter by the hand. “Yours is out here – I couldn’t get it inside,” he says as he leads Peter to the workshop. Peter can’t think what it could be, and he’s absolutely not prepared when Stiles flicks on the lights and drags a dustcover off a massive slab of timber.  Peter barely has a chance to process what he’s looking at before Stiles asks, “Peter, will you accept this gift, of bed and bond?”

Stiles recites the old words smoothly.  Peter stares, speechless, at Stiles’s Christmas gift, and he’s not ashamed to say he tears up at the magnitude of it.

Stiles, in collusion with Tom, has enacted one of the very oldest werewolf courting rituals, presenting Peter with a hand carved headboard. It’s a giant piece of oak, sanded and shaped and varnished, and Stiles has worked an intricate design around the edges of intertwined vines and flowers. Over Peter’s side of the bed he’s carved a triskele, the Hale Family crest. Over his side, in the absence of a family crest, he’s carved the shape of the sheriff’s badge.

It means more than Peter can say. It’s one of the most special traditions, the Carving of the Bed. It’s meant to indicate fidelity, prove a willingness to put time and effort into the relationship, and show the ability to provide. Peter knows that Tom carved his and Ruth’s bedhead, but it honestly never occurred to him that anyone would ever do it _for him_. He should have known better, he reflects as he wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve. Stiles has always been more wolf than boy.

Stiles is glancing between him and the bedhead uncertainly. “Peter, tell me those are happy tears?”

Peter gets out a wet laugh. “Of course they’re happy tears, pup.”

Stiles’s shoulder slump in relief. “Oh, thank god. Because I didn’t have a crest and I wasn’t sure the star was okay and Alpha said it was, but I know this is a big deal and I didn’t want to screw it up, and –“ he’s cut off mid-babble by Peter pulling him close for a passionate kiss.

“Stiles, I accept your gift, of bed and bond,” Peter breathes out when they finally part. “It’s perfect, pup. You know the history?”

“Yeah. Tom told me. If we were courting the old way, it’d be the final gift, like a proposal. And I know we already know we’re going to be together, but I wanted to do something to show I want you. I wanted to be the one to ask _you_ , for a change.” Stiles wraps his arms around Peter’s shoulders, pulls him close. Peter feels the pleasure at his acceptance of the gift pinging down their pack bond, lighting it up. “Took me three months to carve it. Nearly lost another finger except y’know, werewolf now, so it healed. Sliced my hand on the chisel twice. I used my claws to carve the vines, in the end.”

Peter lets go of Stiles long enough to walk over to the headboard, Stiles following behind, and when he looks closely, yes, Peter can see the swoop and swirl of Stiles’s claws in the wood, the odd tiny flaw in the outline somehow making it even more personal. He thinks of all the hours that have gone into this, the love and care. “Have I told you lately how lucky I am to have you?” Peter asks quietly.

“Not for at least a week. I feel very neglected. But it’s okay, you can make it up to me when we go away fro the weekend.” Stiles’s heartbeat speeds up a little and Peter turns to look at him. Stiles has that thoughtful look on his face again, and it piques Peter’s interest.

“Did you have something in mind, sweetheart?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Maybe,” Stiles hedges. “I need to think about it.”

Peter wraps his arms around Stiles and holds him close. “After you did this for me, pup? Anything. Anything at all.”

Stiles makes a pleased sound at that, but doesn’t offer anything further on the subject, instead peppering tiny soft kisses down the sensitive skin of Peter’s neck, making him forget what they were even talking about.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles finally brings it up when they’re packing for their weekend away.  He busies himself refolding the same t shirt again and again, not looking Peter in the eye.  Finally, Peter sighs, “Sweetheart, if you fold that shirt any more, you’ll wear a hole in it. Just ask, whatever it is.”

Stiles fixes his gaze on his hands as he blurts out, “You remember you said I could top, if I wanted?”

Oh.

“Of course. Do we need to pick up some condoms for the weekend?” Stiles frowns in confusion, so Peter clarifies what he means. “They’ll make clean up easier, that’s all. I could get some, if you wanted.” Peter keeps it casual, like it’s no big deal, because he remembers what it’s like to be fifteen going on sixteen and talking about sex. Stiles nods silently, cheeks burning. “I’ll do that, then. If you want to use them or not is entirely up to you.” He gives Stiles a quick peck on the cheek and gets on with his own packing, leaving Stiles biting his lip and blushing.

“Peter?" Stiles's voice is almost a whisper. "What if I’m no good at it?”

And there it is, the crux of the matter. Peter sets his bag aside and wraps his arms around Stiles from behind, holding him close. “Sweetheart, it’ll be fine.” He kisses the shell of Stiles’s ear. “I’m a very good teacher.” He moves on to kissing the nape of Stiles’s neck. “And you’re a very fast learner.”

Stiles squirms in his arms. ”I’m not even sure if I want to.”

Peter turns Stiles in his arms and looks him in the eye. “Stiles, why don’t we just see what happens when we get there? There’s no pressure.”

Stiles nods at that, and the tension in his body eases. “Yeah. We’ll see what happens.”  Peter gives him a soft kiss and goes back to packing, and when Stiles speaks it’s so quiet, he almost misses it. “But you should pick up the condoms.”

 

* * *

 

 

The trip’s a roaring success. Peter’s booked them in for four days, since Tom always keeps the gym closed over the holidays, and they spend a couple of days sightseeing and just enjoying have no constraints on their time. They spend an entire day at the zoo – Stiles is fascinated by the animals, the way they respond to the presence of a wolf, how he can read their reactions now.

On their third night there, over dinner, Stiles looks at Peter shyly from beneath his lashes and says, “So, um, maybe tonight?” Peter grins widely and calls for the check. When they get back to their room, Stiles pins Peter against the giant glass windows and kisses him hungrily, pressing in close. Peter’s cock perks up at the display of dominance from Stiles, and it takes all his willpower to push him away. Stiles frowns, but Peter holds up one finger and says, “Just going to freshen up a little, pup.”

Stiles’s expression clears, and he nods as Peter ducks into the bathroom. Once in there, Peter showers and cleans himself thoroughly. He doesn’t want this to be anything less than perfect, so he takes his time, working himself open on two fingers to make it easier for Stiles. He must take longer than he thinks, because there’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“Are you coming out anytime soon?” Stiles sounds impatient. “Cause I know what you’re doing in there.”

Peter huffs at the disturbance. “Well, _excuse me_ for being a considerate lover,” he calls back. “I’ll be ready when I’m ready.”  He works another finger in -  partly because it feels good, partly to be contrary.

“You’re taking forever,” Stiles grumbles. Definitely impatient, thinks Peter.

“Like you don’t do the same before you ask me to finger you,” he shoots back, and has the satisfaction of hearing Stiles fall silent.

He doesn’t rush. He trims his goatee, shaves his neck, does his hair, brushes his teeth. And then, when he’s finally perfectly presented, he opens the bathroom door and steps out, wearing only a towel, wrapped low around his hips and doing nothing to hide the tent of his erection. He advances towards Stiles, making sure to put a sway in his step and smirking. “It takes time to look this good, sweetheart. Was it worth the wait?” 

He drops the towel.

Stiles pounces. Literally.

Before he knows it Peter’s flat on his back with Stiles on top of him, kissing and touching and teasing him, nuzzling into his neck and scenting, grinding their bodies together. “Fuck you’re pretty,” Stiles manages, voice muffled where his face is buried against Peter’s neck.

“Excuse me, I’m classically handsome,” Peter insists.

Stiles snorts. “Whatever. You smell amazing. You really want this, don’t you?”

Peter knows that the tang of his arousal in the air is telling Stiles all he needs to know, but he still nods. “You have no idea, baby.”

Stiles lifts his head, and his eyes are alight with anticipation. “Same.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles takes his time. He’s slow and careful, asking every step of the way if he’s doing it right, if this is okay. Peter talks him through it, guiding him gently, telling Stiles what he likes. And Stiles really is a fast learner. He makes Peter come just with his fingers in his ass before he even gets close to fucking him.  By the time Stiles is fumbling with the condom wrapper, Peter’s relaxed, stretched loose, and so, so ready. Stiles places his hands on Peter’s hips, holding him in place. Peter drops his arms so his back’s arching up, spreads his legs a little wider, and wiggles his ass. He knows exactly how he looks, spread out in invitation, and he hopes it will encourage Stiles to take that step.

It does.

Stiles slots his cock against Peter’s well fingered hole, takes a deep breath, and presses in. There’s a moment’s resistance before the head of his cock eases inside. Peter sighs at the stretch, and Stiles groans like he’s been punched. “ _Oh, fuck_ ,” he pants out, before pushing in further.

It’s a sentiment Peter echoes with a quiet gasp. It’s been a long time for him, and Stiles isn’t small. He feels every inch, thick and heavy in his ass, and he can’t help the satisfied moan that he makes as Stiles pulls out and pushes back in, bottoming out on the third stroke.

Stiles stills, fully sheathed. “Just need a minute.”

Peter hums and closes his eyes, savoring the feel of Stiles inside of him, reflecting on what Chris told him all those years ago. “ _Maybe your boy’s a top.”_ Peter thinks that if that were the case, he really wouldn’t mind. Not with how perfect Stiles feels, his cock slotting in like they were made for each other. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he murmurs. He’s desperate for Stiles to fuck him, but he also knows how overwhelming it is, being inside someone for the first time. He doesn’t want to rush this.

Stiles runs one hand down Peter’s spine and then starts to thrust, carefully at first, but Peter can pinpoint the exact moment the wolf takes over. Stiles lets out a growl, and then he’s hammering into Peter, hard and fast and desperate. Peter rocks back into the thrusts, letting out a loud moan every time Stiles brushes across his prostate. Stiles pulls almost all the way out, and then slams back in with such force that Peter actually moves a good two inches up the bed. The wolf is here, and he wants to play _hard_.

Peter grins into the pillow, and lets himself enjoy the ride. Stiles pulls him back against himself with every thrust, holding on tight and driving in deep. Peter wraps a hand around his shaft, chasing his own pleasure. The room is filled with the sound of harsh breathing, the slap of skin on skin.  Stiles’s grip tightens and he gasps out suddenly, “Fuck, Peter. I’m gonna – “

He doesn’t finish the sentence. His hips stutter and still, and Peter knows he’s done. Peter’s close himself, and it only takes a few quick strokes before he joins Stiles, coming with a growl of his own. 

They roll to their sides so that Stiles is lying, loose limbed and heavy, sprawled against Peter’s back. Peter doesn’t mind. He likes the weight of it, the closeness. Peter can feel where Stiles is still lodged inside him, deliciously thick and undeniably pleasant. His wolf is beyond content. He breaks the silence. “I think we might have to do that again, pup.”

Stiles lifts his head. “Yeah? It was okay? I didn’t last long.” Peter hears the need for reassurance in there.

“No, sweetheart. It was terrible. That’s why I want to do it again.”  Peter feels rather that sees Stiles huff out a laugh. Stiles pulls out of him, making Peter whine at the loss. Peter rolls so that they’re facing each other. The colour is high in Stiles’s cheeks, and he’s wearing a brilliant smile. Peter leans in and kisses him, before saying, “It was amazing, pup. But of course, you had an excellent teacher.”

“Asshole,” Stiles mutters fondly, and kisses him back.

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really just tying up all the loose threads.

 

Stiles thought that things would change between them somehow, after they took that step. He’s not sure what he expected exactly -  that they’d have wild monkey sex every night maybe, or that Peter would expect him to return the favor – but none of that happens.

The only thing that changes is that occasionally, Peter will spend an unreasonable amount of time in the bathroom before coming to bed, and then making it abundantly clear that he’d quite like Stiles in his ass please, possibly more than once.

They’ve ditched the condoms. Stiles doesn’t like the smell of the latex, and Peter confessed mid post-sex cuddling that he wasn’t really a fan of them either, preferring skin on skin. They tried it without. Stiles, once he regained the ability to move after coming his brains out, threw the opened packet half heartedly at the bin. He missed by a country mile, but the message was clear, he thinks.

It took him a few months, but now Stiles has it down to a fine art, making Peter come just from being fucked. It’s a heady feeling. Stiles loves to see Peter fall apart, loves to make him beg. If the noises Peter makes are anything to go by, he enjoys it just as much.

Other than that, things stay the same. It took the combined strength of Tom, Derek, and Ruth to move the headboard in while Stiles and Peter were on vacation, and it still gives Stiles a thrill every time he sees Peter running a hand over the carved patterns. He doesn’t think Peter even knows he does it, but he gets a soft look on his face every time, and that alone is worth the hours and hours of work Stiles put into it.

Stiles deliberately didn’t tell Peter exactly what a near miss it was, nearly losing another finger, but honestly, it was closer than he’d like to admit – he went through the bone with a chisel, and nearly severed the whole thing in a moment of carelessness.  It was weird and disturbing, watching his skin and bone knit itself back together while Tom cradled the hand and held the ends where they needed to be. John pitched an absolute fit, yelling that _just because he was a wolf it didn’t mean he had to be a damn fool about it_ , and barred him from the workshop for two days because he said his heart couldn’t take it. To be fair, he had a point, and it was then that Tom quietly pointed out to Stiles that he had perfectly good claws, perhaps he could use them instead?

Stiles thinks he’ll definitely keep that story to himself.

 

* * *

 

When Stiles turns sixteen, John declares that now he’s older, he can stay over at Peter’s more often, two weeknights and twice on weekends. He justifies it by saying Stiles has proven that he can keep up with his homework and his chores, and Stiles grins and hugs his dad tightly in thanks. Stiles suspects it’s because John stays out more nights a week than Stiles does nowadays, and doesn’t want to be seen as a hypocrite, but Stiles doesn’t mention that fact, tempting as it is. It’s partly because he doesn’t want his dad to rescind his offer, but mainly because Stiles plain _likes_ his dad’s girlfriend. It was a happy surprise, but he and Sandy have just...clicked.

It's probably because Sandy’s never tried to mother him, and that’s something he appreciates more than he can say.

Sure, he ribs his dad a little, but when John’s birthday rolls around he also drops by the station and gives Sandy the heads up on what flavour cake his dad would like and where to take him to dinner. Sandy’s good to his dad, makes him happy. John’s laughing more than he has in years, and that’s not something Stiles ever thought he’d see.  He’ll do anything he can do to encourage it.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the summer break, Scott asks for the bite.

Afterwards, breathing freely for the first time in years, he cries.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles unexpectedly gets to see Peter’s possessive side up close and personal the week after Halloween.  He’s working after school at the gym, wiping down the equipment with sanitizer and filling the water coolers. He knows there’s a woman on the treadmills watching him, has felt her eyes on him for the last fifteen minutes, but he ignores it – (he knows some of the gym ladies think he’s _‘cute as a button_ ,’ courtesy of werewolf ears).

He’s going about his business, half a mind on putting the hand weights away and half a mind on whether he wants to go to the movies with Scott this weekend, when it happens. There’s a sharp sting as someone slaps his ass _hard_ , while walking past. Stiles whips his head around to see the woman from the treadmill walking away, grinning. ”Hey!” He frowns at her, making his disapproval known.

She grins and raises her arms in a loose shrug. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. An  ass like that needs to get spanked now and then.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest that his ass is perfectly fine _un_ spanked, thank you, but before he gets a chance, Peter intervenes. He strides furiously across the room and stands with his face mere inches from Miss Treadmill’s, claws and fangs out. _“Did you just assault Stiles?”_ he thunders, as she takes a step back reflexively.

“I was just joking!’ she stammers out.

Peter holds up his wrist with Stiles’ name on it and brandishes it like a weapon. “You keep your hands to yourself, and off my soulmate!”

The woman goes pale in the face of Peter’s snarling. Even though his ass is still smarting, Stiles actually feels a little sorry for her, so he goes over and wraps his arms around Peter from the back, holding him in place. “Now would be a very good time for you to leave, before he rips your throat out,” Stiles tells her quietly. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and scurries off, while Stiles rocks Peter where he’s holding him, telling him, “Calm down Protectivewolf, I’m fine.”

Peter twists in his grip so they facing, and leans in close, huffing at Stiles’s collarbones. “You’re not fine. She hurt you!”

“Not really. It was a dick move, but I’m alright.”  Stiles tilts his head to the side so Peter can scent him better, and runs his hands softly down Peter’s back in long strokes. “No attacking the clients, love.”

Peter’s chest is heaving, but his fangs and claws have retracted at least. “We’re cancelling her membership,” he mutters. “Sexual harassment of staff.”

“Who’s sexually harassing who?” Tom’s voice reaches them. “I go to the bathroom, and the next thing I hear you roaring and see one of my new clients practically running from the premises. What the hell did I miss?”

Peter starts to growl again at the reminder, and Stiles knows he won’t be using his words anytime soon, so he explains. “Woman smacked my ass. Peter wolfed out. Woman left.”

Tom’s eyebrows raise in surprise. The next question’s unexpected. “Peter, do you need to take Stiles home?”

Peter nods wordlessly. Tom shoos the pair of them, saying, “Go. I’ll call that idiot woman up and tell her she’s blacklisted.”

Stiles’s feet barely touch the floor as Peter, still growling and muttering, drags him out to the parking lot. He rolls his eyes and goes with it, getting in the car, and carefully not mentioning the speed limit that Peter’s currently ignoring. Once they’re home. Peter’s all care and concern, as if Stiles is a sick child. And as a werewolf, Stiles gets it. Someone’s challenged Peter’s claim on Stiles, hurt his mate. Peter needs to make sure Stiles is fine. So he doesn’t object when Peter bundles him through to the bedroom and starts peeling his clothes off, running his hands and kissing over every inch of skin he exposes.

Peter swings between muttering threats against the woman’s person while   calling her a shameless whore, and cooing over his _poor sweet baby_. When he finds that there is, in fact, a red mark on Stiles’s ass, he growls deeply before peppering the area with kisses. “Bitch needs to keep her hands to herself,” he snarls, and Stiles can scent Peter’s distress.

Stiles rolls over onto his back then and pulls Peter up the bed, cradling his face in both hands. “Peter, I promise I’m fine. If you hadn’t been there, I would have dealt with it myself.” He lets his eyes flash, a gentle reminder to Peter that he’s more than capable.

Peter’s shoulders slump, and Stiles sees Peter taking a few deep breaths, in and out, slow and steady as he tries to calm down. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

“Little bit. But I mean, I’m not objecting.” Stiles presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead. “It’s kinda hot, you being all protective.” He kisses the tip of Peter’s nose. “You should check me out further.”  He places a series of kisses down the side of Peter’s neck. “You know, for injuries.” He sucks a mark against Peter’s collarbone where it lingers briefly before fading. “Just in case.”

Peter’s gone from annoyed to aroused, which is exactly what Stiles was aiming for. “It would be the sensible thing to do,” Peter agrees, a smile playing across his face. “Anywhere you need looked at specifically, pup?”

“Hmmm. She came awfully close to my dick. It might need someone to kiss it better?” Stiles asks hopefully. Peter laughs, all traces of anger and jealousy gone, and he spends the rest of the afternoon wrapped around Stiles, restaking his claim, confirming that Stiles is only his.  And if Stiles maybe needs to assert his claim on Peter’s ass as well, rocking into him gently and fucking him slow and deep, that’s okay too.

 

* * *

 

“Shall we go away for New Years again, pup?”

Stiles hums from where he’s decorating their tree. More nerdy ornaments have somehow made their way into the collection, and he’s debating how close he can put Batman to Spiderman without it being conflicting. “Yes,” he finally decides. “We’ll go away and be tourists and everyone will be jealous of my super-hot boyfriend.”

Peter wraps his arms around Stiles from behind, pulling him close. “I am very attractive,” he agrees. “You have no idea how many desperate single women I turn down at work.”

“Oh, I think I do. It averages about four a week.” Stiles laughs at the horrified look on Peter’s face. “Derek keeps a running tally. He says he’s still ahead, by the way – he gets hit on way more than you.”

“The difference being, my dear nephew doesn’t always say no,” Peter points out.

“Sometimes he does. I think he has a rule that if there’s leopard skin lycra involved, he’s out.”

Peter snickers at Stiles’s accurate assessment. Derek might be free with his affection, but he doesn’t hesitate to turn down unwanted invitations. “The day will come when he meets the right person and hangs up his hat, and I think half of Beacon Hills will weep at the loss,” Peter predicts.

“Well, you can’t blame them. Derek’s a sweet guy, once you get past the eyebrows of death. He’s hot, too,” Stiles adds, just to see Peter’s expression. Stiles still likes to tease Peter about his jealous streak.

“I’ll show you hot,” Peter huffs, grabbing Stiles and lifting him over his shoulder, carrying him off to bed squirming and giggling.

No more decorating gets done that night.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles’s grades are good – so good in fact, that there’s no doubt he’ll get to go to the college of his choice. He thinks about it sometimes, where he’d like to go, but it’s a year before he has to decide. He hopes Peter will come with him, but he’ll understand if he doesn’t – it would be unfair to expect Peter to leave everything behind just to hold Stiles’s hand. Peter’s established now – he’s nicknamed the Demon Wolf by his clients because he drives them so hard.

Tom sends him anyone who he thinks might need an attitude adjustment, and Stiles will watch quietly from where he’s working out with Derek as Peter pushes them hard enough that they’re begging for mercy. Personally, Stiles thinks they’re idiots for letting Peter get away with half the crap he pulls, but they seem to _like it_ when he shoots them down verbally, insulting them and goading them.

Stiles guesses that maybe it doesn’t work on him because he’s seen Peter when he’s barely awake and frowning into his coffee, when he’s soft and sleepy after sex, and when he’s begging on the end of Stiles’s cock, and that makes it impossible to take him seriously when he starts shouting.

But anyway, the point is, Stiles knows the maybe Peter won’t come with him when he goes to college.  But that’s okay. They’ve been apart before, and at least they’re adults now. And it’s not for ages, anyway. It’ll be fine.

 

* * *

 

 

The only issue he has at school is when there’s a new chemistry teacher. Harris doesn’t approve of werewolves generally, and looks down his nose at Stiles in particular, making snide comments about child brides and mixed breeds. Stiles has managed to hold back from punching him, because he promised his dad after the whole _‘Hanging Devon in a tree’_ thing that he wouldn’t resort to violence again, but it takes all his self-control. He comes home one day absolutely fuming, ranting to John about how the teacher’s an absolute dick, before going to the gym to work out his frustrations. He doesn’t expect his Dad to take it any further, honestly.

But the next afternoon John pays the man a visit, waiting for him in the school car park. Stiles doesn’t know exactly what was said, but the comments stop immediately, and Harris looks distinctly wary when he glances Stiles’s way. 

A week later his dad asks innocently if Stiles has had any more problems, and Stiles pretends not to smell the waves of satisfaction rolling off his father when he tells him that no, Harris seems to have had some kind of awakening.   Sometimes, Stiles suspects his dad’s picked up more werewolf traits than he realizes.

 

* * *

 

 

The year goes oh, so fast.  Stiles’s seventeenth birthday is here before he knows it, and then Peter’s twenty-seven, and the summer holidays are upon them.  Stiles will be starting his final year of high school soon, and everyone assumes he’s going to college – it’s just a matter of where. Stiles doesn’t know where he wants to go, even briefly considers staying in Beacon Hills. He finally broaches the subject with Peter. “Should I just apply at the community college? That way I could stay here.” Stiles is laying on the couch in just his boxers, enjoying the cool of the aircon.

Peter looks over from where he’s slicing up fruit, shirtless. He licks the juice from his fingers before asking,” Why would you do that, pup?”

Stiles shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe because I’ll miss my asshole boyfriend if I leave him behind for three years?”

Peter frowns. “Who says you’re leaving me behind?”

Stiles turns to face him. “Peter, you’re set up here. You have a job, and this house, and your pack. You’re not going to give all that up to come to college with me.”

Peter comes over, carrying the fruit salad he’s made. He likes to handfeed Stiles sometimes, says it pleases the wolf.  He arranges them so Stiles’s head is in his lap, and proceeds to select chunks of fruit for him. “Well I might, if you asked instead of assuming. I’d actually be happy to come with you. I liked living in the city, and I honestly think I’ve spent long enough yelling at people to work their glutes. I’m ready for something different. Plus, I’d miss getting to do this if you went without me.” He takes a bit of mango and traces it over Stiles’s lips before popping in into his waiting mouth. Stiles is silent as he chews the fruit, trying to parse what Peter’s telling him. “Unless you don’t want me to come?” Peter cocks an eyebrow.

 Stiles tilts his head back and gives Peter disbelieving look. “You’re kidding, right? Of course I want you to come. I just didn’t want to assume.”

Peter rolls his eyes, and feeds Stiles a strawberry. “Well of course I’ll go with you. I’ll follow you wherever you go, pup.”

“But what about your job and –“

 _“Wherever you go_ ,” Peter repeats firmly, and shuts Stiles up with a kiss.

Stiles kisses him back, and when they part he lets Peter feed him the whole bowl of fruit, absurdly happy in the knowledge that he’s not going to be alone when he leaves for college.

Wherever he goes, Peter will be there.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is an idiot. He knows this. And he knows it’s stupid, tying himself up in knots about their sex life.

But he gets it into his head that Peter’s missing out somehow, and once the notion takes hold, he can’t shake it. They’re lying in bed late at night, Peter freshly fucked and half asleep, when the uncertainty finally gets to him, and he nudges Peter to get his attention. “Peter?”

Peter mutters something that might be _what?._

“Aren’t you sick of waiting?”

“Mmm?” Peter opens one eye. “I don’t know what you mean, pup?”

Another nudge. “You know. For me to be ready for proper sex.”

Peter opens the other eye, and Stiles can see that he’s a little more awake. “We have proper sex, sweet boy. It’s delightful.”

Stiles falls silent, considering. Finally he says, “I feel like you’re missing out, not getting to top.” There, he’s said it.

Peter pulls Stiles closer. “Trust me baby, I’m not.  I’m perfectly happy with how things are.”

Stiles squirms. “It just seems unfair.”

“Stiles, I have no interest in asking you to do something you don’t want to do. The scent of an unwilling partner’s the opposite of sexy.” He kisses Stiles soft and sweet, and adds, “It’s not something you need to worry about, pup, I promise. What we do is fine.”

Stiles hears his steady heartbeat, knows Peter’s not lying. He relaxes into Peter’s arms with a sigh. “I guess.  I don’t want you to think I don’t want to try it, because I do. I just don’t know when.”

”Sweetheart, you’re seventeen. There’s plenty of time. I was nineteen before I even had my first kiss, remember.”

Hearing that settles something in Stiles. Maybe he’s worrying over nothing after all. “That’s true. And I mean, I already like what you do with your hands.”

“As you should,” Peter tells him with a teasing smile. “I’m very good with my hands.” His expression is soft, fond, and it’s that more than anything that tells Stiles that Peter really, really doesn’t care.

“Mmm. Maybe you could show me, remind me just how good you are.”

Peter lets out a tiny growl. “Sweetheart, I would _love_ to remind you.” He’s fully awake now, and the air sweetens with the scent of their mutual arousal.

Stiles grins, and nuzzles against Peter’s throat. “Now would be good. I mean, we’re already naked.”

Peter laughs as he rolls them over and pins Stiles underneath him. “I always did say you’d be an insatiable creature once you got older. I was right.” And he looks so inordinately pleased by the idea, Stiles forgets any foolish ideas he had about not being enough, not satisfying his mate, when Peter kisses him senseless.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter comes in the door of the house to the aroma of something delicious, and finds Stiles in the kitchen cooking. It’s not something Stiles does often – he has a lot of talents, but this isn’t one of them, but there he is, taking a roast out of the oven. Peter suspect’s Ruth’s been involved somehow. He goes over for a kiss before saying, “This is a nice surprise, pup. Special occasion?”

Stiles gives him a mischievous grin. “Maybe.”

Peter hurries to change and when he emerges, Stiles is just putting the plates together. Peter takes his with a thank you and sits down, looking at Stiles expectantly. “You want something, pup. What is it?”

Stiles pokes his tongue out. “That cuts deep. Maybe I just want to be nice.” Peter just gives him a look, and Stiles sighs. “Okay, fine. Maybe I wanted to ask you to Prom, that’s all. It’s okay if you don’t want to go. It’s gonna be a bunch of kids and a terrible band.“

Peter perks up. Stiles has been accepted to three different colleges, and somehow, in the excitement, Peter had forgotten Prom was just around the corner. “I’d love to go, sweetheart.”

Stiles looks up hopefully. “Really?”

“Really. I’d be thrilled to be your prom date. I missed my own, remember?”

Stiles cocks his head. “You missed prom?”

Of course, Peter reflects. Stiles probably didn’t even think about it at the time, with what was going on. “You mother was near the end,” Peter reminds Stiles quietly. “It didn’t seem important.” 

Stiles’s face falls, just for a second. “Shit. Yeah. I never even thought at the time. I’m sorry.” He stretches out his hand and places it over Peter’s, giving a squeeze.

Peter shrugs. “You had more important things to worry about. And anyway, who would I have gone with? I had my soulmate.” He turns their hands and runs a thumb over his name on Stiles’s wrist.

“Still. I always thought I was missing out, catching up. I forget that it must have sucked for you too.”

Stiles give Peter a sad, almost regretful smile, and Peter’s not having any of that.  “Sweetheart, I’m lucky to have you, and I’ve never, ever regretted it. Now, what do you say we go all out and make your prom night something special?”

Stiles brightens at that. “Matching suits?”

“Absolutely. I’m gunning for Prom king and queen.”  Stiles laughs at that, and seeing the way his face lights up, Peter determines to make this a night to remember.

 

* * *

 

 

They choose black suits with wine red waistcoats, and Peter turns up on Stiles’s doorstep with a matching wrist corsage for his date, but he has to stop and take a breath before he can hand it over. The cut of the suit emphasises Stiles’s long legs and broad shoulders, and the pants draw attention to his ass nicely, making Peter want to grab it. All traces of the scruffy, awkward teenager in cargo shorts that Peter spends time with every day are gone.

Stiles looks magnificent.

Peter knows exactly what’s lurking under that suit, how much muscle is hiding, and he can’t wait to get his hands on it. Peter wonders if there’s any way they can skip the whole evening and get to the part where he rips Stiles’s suit off him. He wonders briefly if Stiles would forgive him if he _actually_ ripped that suit off him.

“Earth to Peter?” Stiles voice pulls him out of his reverie, and he finds Stiles giving him a knowing look. “I don’t need to ask what you’re thinking about, I can smell it on you,” Stiles says, smirking.

Peter kisses his cheek. “Well, you look breathtaking, pup. Can you blame me?”

 Stiles visibly preens at the praise.” You like?”

Peter pulls him in for a passionate kiss, unable to wait any longer. Stiles responds eagerly, and things are just starting to heat up when there’s the sound of a throat clearing. “You two had best get inside and stand still so your mother can take some pictures, or she’ll never forgive the pair of you,” Tom tells them, smirking.

They break apart, grinning at each other, and Ruth takes a dozen shots of them in various poses before she declares herself satisfied and kisses them both before she sends them out the door.  Stiles makes suitably impressed noises over the stretch limo that Peter’s arranged, and they get to the school later than planned because Stiles insists they drive around and make out for a while first. “We only get one Prom, we may as well make the most of it,” he says with a grin. Peter draws the line at Stiles’s whispered offer of a blowjob in the back seat.

The night’s everything Peter expected. It’s full of teenage boys sweating nervously in their rented suits and dancing with blushing girls who all, somehow, manage to look like models. The band is loud and enthusiastic, the punch is spiked, and there’s a brawl in the men’s room. For Peter it’s like traveling back in time, and he finds himself oddly charmed by it all.

They spend a lot of time on the dance floor, and Peter makes the most of the opportunity to get his hands on Stiles’s ass when nobody’s looking. Stiles retaliates by whispering increasingly filthy suggestions in his ear, until finally, Peter nips at his neck and growls out, “Keep that up and I’ll drag you home right now, pup, and you'll never know if you were Prom King.”

“So, drag me,” Stiles smirks, and nips Peter back. It takes all Peter’s willpower not to throw Stiles over his shoulder like a caveman, but he manages it. Instead he places a hand firmly in the small of Stiles’ s back and steers him out the door at speed, garnering a few amused glances. He doesn’t care. He’s paid the driver to wait for them, and he opens the door and guides a laughing Stiles inside.

The car deposits them at Peter’s place, and they barely manage to get in the door before pants are dropped, buttons are popped, and Peter does, in fact, rip the shirt right off Stiles’s back. It’s a stumbling, laughing dance to the bedroom, with backs pressed against walls, kisses lavished on exposed throats, and a quick, dirty hand job when they just can’t wait any longer.

When they finally get to the bedroom, it’s Peter worshipping every inch of Stiles’s pale skin with soft kisses and kitten licks, his clever fingers playing over the flesh and making Stiles gasp and beg for more. It’s Peter taking Stiles in his mouth and making him come like a freight train. It’s Stiles returning the favor.

They both let their wolves come to the fore, not holding back as they scent each other, rub the mess they make into each other’s skin, lick and suck and bruise each other, however briefly. And afterwards, when they’re both worn out, it’s Stiles curling up against Peter’s side contentedly, Peter enjoying the warmth of his body, and the pair of them falling asleep in minutes, both gloriously messy and stupidly happy.

When John asks Stiles the next day if he had a good time, Stiles’s wide smile is answer enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles chooses between his two preferred colleges by tossing a coin. Peter looks horrified when he suggests it, but Stiles explains, “It doesn’t matter how the coin lands.  The way I’ll know is by what result I’m hoping for.” Which Peter supposes makes a weird kind of sense.

Stiles tosses the coin, eyes tightly closed, and sure enough, when the coin clatters on the floor, he keeps his eyes closed, chanting _“Berkeley, Berkeley…”_ under his breath. 

Peter picks up the coin and puts it in his pocket without even looking. “You’re going to Berkeley, baby,” he says.

Stiles’s eyes snap open. “Did you even look at the coin?”

“Did I even need to?”

Stiles grins. “Probably not. I gotta go see Alpha, ask if they can get the apartment ready.”

After Stiles has headed home to tell the rest of the pack which college he’s chosen, Peter makes a couple of calls, and responds to an email that he’s had in his inbox for three weeks while he waited for Stiles’s decision.

Then he heads down to the main house to tell his family that he’s just accepted a position as a research assistant at Berkeley, working with Julie once again – she’s been offering him the job at intervals over the past year, and he’s finally said yes. There are congratulations all round, and Stiles pulls him in for a kiss. “Did you have a job lined up everywhere I was thinking of going?” he asks quietly.

“Maybe. I do like to have a backup plan,” Peter says noncommittally. The phone calls he’d made had been to regretfully decline the proffered positions.

Stiles beams. “We’re going to live together properly. You’re stuck with me, now.”

“I should hope so.” Peter holds up his wrist and runs a finger over the name there. “After all, who else could there possibly be, pup?”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say Hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bunnywest)


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